"Take me to your queen then," Rafe said. "Let her witness Spanish courage. But the woman, Tessa—"
"You can wager that we'll take you to the queen, captain, as soon as you heal enough to survive the journey. And Tessa—" Warburton's tongue caressed the soft syllables.
"Release her, curse you. I took her captive, held her against her will."
"Did you, now, milord Spaniard?" Warburton leaned down from his mount, his gauntleted hand snarling in Tessa's dark hair. "Then I shall be forced to rescue our poor little puppet mistress from your clutches—and draw her into my own."
Chapter 5
Warvaliant. The mighty castle rose from the sea cliffs like a gargoyle, its ugly claws digging deep into the stone, its turrets tearing at the sky. It had dominated these lands since the glittering Plantagenets possessed England's throne, and it was as though the very ashlar within those ancient walls had soaked up both the madness and the majesty that had graced the reigns of Lion Heart, and evil John.
Inside the fortress's daunting walls Tessa shuddered, the meager folds of her gown little shield against the drafts that swept the dank corridors. Thick, musty air clogged her lungs; dust from the bones of nameless prisoners centuries past seemed to sift over her skin as Neville Warburton and his men led her deeper, ever deeper, into the great beast's belly.
She had always hated the huge edifices where she sold her wares, preferring the wild, windswept sea and the meadows, sweet-smelling with blossoms. Even the hovel she and Hagar had shared had an openness about it. Through countless tiny cracks the winds could whisper to her, call to her. Here, buried deep in stone, it was like death—cold, still, empty.
Death…
Tessa swallowed hard, squinting into the dimness that cloaked the passageway despite the torches of Lord Warburton's men. Her gaze fixed yet again upon the slumped form of Rafael Santadar, slung carelessly over the shoulder of a massive man-at-arms. His midnight hair fell in rough-satin waves about his face; his sinewy arms dangled limp as a rag doll's, while his leg...
Tessa felt her stomach lurch as her eyes flicked to the armor of the man who carried the unconscious Spaniard. Beneath Rafe's thigh, the polished steel breastplate was dulled with blood. And with each step the careless oaf took, he ground sharp metal deeper into torn flesh.
She did not know where Warburton was taking them and had no idea how long it would be before they reached whatever destination he had planned. But she did know that with every drop of blood that flowed from the gaping wound, Santadar's meager chance of surviving diminished further.
It was a miracle the man had managed to live this long, what with the reckless dash Warburton had made across the wilds to reach Warvaliant. Blood drunk the nobleman had been, like a lunatic child rushing home with his prize.
Warburton had been oblivious to Santadar's suffering, and Tessa had wished to God she could be as well. But she had felt the Spaniard’s pain as though red-hot pincers tore at her own flesh as she watched Rafe clench his teeth in stoic silence.
Twice she had dared call out to Warburton, remind him that he would need his prisoner alive to remain in the good graces of the queen. She had prayed the cruel lord would not detect desperation in her voice, knowing that the slightest betrayal of weakness would bring Warburton down upon her. But the nobleman had been too busy gloating over his triumph to take note of her tone. Only Santadar had seen through her, and he had shot her a reproving glare.
Infuriated, she had hardened herself against him, vowing to let him cling to his idiotic pride. But when he finally slumped in the saddle, only his bonds holding him on his mount's back, Tessa had not been able to stifle a surge of relief that he was out of pain at last.
A lump in the floor caught at her foot, and she stumbled, the pain in her shoulder as it grated against rough stone jolting her from her musing. The walls of Warvaliant Castle suffocated her once again as her eyes focused on Rafe.
She had vowed to interfere no more, resolved not to place herself in peril for a man who only chafed at her efforts in his behalf. But she could not stop remembering the gentleness with which he had held her, comforted her.
So lost in her anguish had he become that he had never once acknowledged his own pain, both from the wound in his leg and from the bitter defeat he had suffered. Her gaze darted to the massive shoulders of the English nobleman, then back to the helpless Spaniard.
It would be madness to cast her lot with an enemy of the Crown, she thought grimly. She was crazed to feel loyalty to a man she had only met a few hours ago. Why, then, did she have this insane urge to fling herself between Rafael Santadar and Warburton?
Perhaps it was true what the villagers had said. Perhaps her wits were as addled as poor Hagar's had been. But Tessa knew she had to aid Rafe, no matter what the cost. It would serve her right if they strung her up at Tyburn, she thought.
With an inward bow to her own recklessness, she swept up the torn hem of her gown and ripped a strip of fabric free.
"My lord?" Her voice echoed back to her from the darkened passage, strong and clear. Yet she almost faltered when Warburton paused, his wide, rough-hewn face angled toward her.
Bushy rust-hued brows met over his hawk-like nose. "You must be patient, my dove," he said. "I'll attend to you when our brave sea captain lies chained."
"Chained?" Tessa echoed. "You need no chains to bind a dead man. Unless you allow me to stanch Captain Santadar's wound, you'll need a grave digger instead of a jailer."
Warburton spun around, his scowl making Tessa's heart lurch. "Aye, and then, as you keep reminding me, my own head might be forfeit. But I am no longer convinced our sovereign would be so wroth if the rogue were to die. Santadar is a scurvy Spaniard, a mad dog to be slaughtered, either by Queen Bess's retainers or by mine. While you, my little puppet mistress, would do well to remember that upon this island we have a name for those who give succor to an enemy; and that name is traitor."
Tessa glanced at the man carrying Rafe, who had stopped in the wake of his master. She felt as though Warburton had cast an invisible gauntlet before her. Never, even as a child, had she been wise enough to ignore a direct challenge. It had cost her countless sprained ankles, bumped heads, blackened eyes. Yet now the stakes were far greater. She gritted her teeth, arching her neck.
Boldly, defiantly, yet cursing herself for twelve-times the fool, she stomped over toward the man and thrust the wad of cloth between Santadar's torn flesh and the merciless point of armor.
"So that is the way the winds blow, wench." Warburton's sneer seemed to clench invisible fingers about Tessa's throat, but though her arms dropped again to her sides, her eyes glinted with a veiled defiance that was more infuriating to the nobleman than open belligerence.
She felt Warburton's gaze flick down over the bodice of her dress, lingering on the full curve of breast, the narrow dip of waist. His lips split into an ugly leer. "By God's blood, I vow you shall pay for that, mistress. Aye, in the only coin you possess."
"My fate is the queen's to decide, as is Captain Santadar's." Her insolent words cut through the corridor. She saw a flash of fury darken Warburton's cheeks, heard the choked gasps of his men. Yet despite the fact that her words had shored up her battered pride, Tessa already wished them back.
It was a fatal error to bait a man like Neville Warburton. Scores of times she had heard tales told about the red-haired giant's cruelties. She had always been careful to keep herself far from the nobleman's piercing eyes, and yet here she stood, like a cursed lunatic baiting the monster. And why? Because of some honor-crazed Galahad who had stumbled across her path only the night before.
"My—my lord." The words were thick in her throat. "I—" But she was stunned to find that the apology her mind had formed would not pass her lips. Her chin jutted out stubbornly, despite the fact that she knew her actions were dangerous.
"Aye, I am your lord, doxy. And here at Warvaliant, that is akin to God." With that, Warburton stalked into the winding darkness, his men-at-arm
s hastening behind him. For a moment Tessa stood frozen, staring after them. Then the gauntleted hand of one of Warburton's men urged her on.
"That was foolish, wench." The strange voice emanating from beneath the man's visor dripped warning. "If you want any beauty left in that face of yours, you'll keep your mouth shut and serve my lord in any fashion he desires. Any fashion. I have seen what he is capable of." His words sent chills racing down Tessa's spine. "And the Spaniard," the man said quietly, "forget him. He will soon be dead, either at the hand of Lord Warburton, or that of the queen." Was there gentleness in his hushed voice?
Tessa glanced up, but the man's features were hidden, his visor making him a faceless entity.
"You needn't look at me like that,” the man said. “Your eyes could steal a man's soul, but mine has already been bartered to this castle and to this lord."
Tessa jumped at the sound of a heavy door slamming against stone, and she felt the man's arm steady her an instant; then it was gone.
One of those who had been leading the procession entered the chamber, and Tessa watched as he thrust his torch into an iron sconce inside. Light dribbled in macabre patterns upon the dank cell walls, and the mound of hay in one slime-encrusted corner.
"Chain the Spaniard within," Warburton's voice rang out. His eyes, cold and merciless, regarded Tessa with twisted pleasure as his man lugged Rafe into the cell and dumped his limp form onto the soiled straw.
Santadar gave a weak groan as the wad of cloth Tessa had used to stanch his wound fell to the dirty floor. Instinctively, Tessa took a step forward, meaning to replace the crude bandage, but the cell walls seemed to close in upon her. Warvaliant's dungeons held a hundred secrets, whispers of death, torture. At that moment she could almost see ancient specters pushing their bony fingers against her chest.
She froze, her nails digging deep into the palms of her hands as her eyes darted to Warburton. He was smiling as if he sensed her rising fear. Tessa's heart plunged to her toes.
"This place is a most unpleasant prospect, milady, is it not? Even for one used to crawling about in a filthy hovel. Of course, your accommodations will be much more pleasant." He turned to the man nearest him. "Smythe, you will have the honor of escorting our lady guest to my chamber."
"Nay."
Warburton's face snapped toward her at the sound of her voice, and Tessa met the nobleman's gaze with a courage she did not feel. "I would prefer to remain here."
"Here? You would rather keep company with a Spaniard than serve in my bed?" A laugh ripped like a jagged blade from the lord's mouth. "I could force you, Tessa of Ravenscroft, drag you to my chamber, bend you to my will. But I will not. It will be far more diverting to watch you break yourself, to watch that stiff-necked pride crumble away. For I promise you, you will be glad enough to escape these walls and fly into my arms when the rats begin gnawing on your pretty white flesh."
Tessa steeled herself against his scathing gaze, fighting the urge to shrink away. She could almost feel rodents' claws skittering over her skin, see the beady eyes glittering hungrily. Yet she could not, would not, show Warburton weakness.
Sucking in a deep breath to steady herself, she forced her feet forward, her lungs squeezing tight as she entered the cell. "I shall have need of clean water to tend the captain's wounds, aye, and fresh bandages. If your cook could bring a heartening broth made of—"
She started as Warburton's hand flashed out, seizing a flask from one of his men. With his other hand he ripped free a sash of saffron silk and then with an oath hurled both objects to the floor of the cell.
"These will have to serve," he snarled. "He's an enemy, not an honored guest! But since you have chosen to act as his healer, you would do well to heed my warning: If the Spaniard dies, I shall personally hurl you into hell along with him."
His laughter raked Tessa's raw nerves.
"Good night, milady." He slammed the massive door shut, abandoning her to terror.
Despite herself, Tessa rushed at the bolted portal. Her fingers curled against the iron-bound wood as she fought a detestable urge to break into tears. By sheer force of will she dammed them up.
"Nay, damn you." She whispered the words, a fierce aching in her breast. "I'll not let you turn me into a sniveling babe."
Squaring her shoulders, Tessa stepped back from the barred cell door, and pulled deep bracing air into her lungs. But dread clamored within her, cutting her ever more sharply as she slowly turned to face the limp figure silhouetted against the filthy straw.
"It is your fault we're in this cursed tangle!" Tessa took refuge in berating the senseless Santadar. "I warned you against building that blasted fire! But did you listen? Nay, your ears were too stopped up with notions of chivalry and honor to heed good counsel."
"F-forgive me."
Tessa's mouth gaped open at the words, scarce a whisper in the silence of the cell. Catching up her skirts in her hand, she ran to Rafe.
"Captain Santadar?" She knelt beside the mound of straw, her flesh crawling as a small creature skittered deeper into the filthy mass of makeshift bedding. "Captain Santadar, are you awake?"
A wave of surprise jolted through her as she found herself drowning in wide-open indigo eyes.
"Awake enough to know I hurt like hell."
"It is little wonder. Nay! Don't try to sit up, you bloody witling! If you damage the wound any further, you'll be making your last confession at St. Peter's gates."
"Serve... me right." Disregarding her warning, Rafe attempted to sit up, the corded muscles of his arms standing out in stark relief against his skin. Sweat gilded his brow and upper lip. She heard him groan and curse, and after a few agonizing seconds, he sagged back in defeat.
"I warned you, you ox-headed oaf! You couldn't lift a butterfly, let alone haul up that great carcass of yours!" Tessa laid her hand on his forehead to test for fever. "You'd best resign yourself to lying still and enduring what little nursing you get, because I'm all you have."
"Should... should have sent you... away." The soft words broke through Tessa's tirade, and she stopped, her hands stilling above the blood-matted fabric of Rafe's breeches.
"What did you say?"
Thick ebony lashes drifted down to high cheekbones, and that beautifully carved mouth twisted into a grimace. When he spoke again, there was a thread of weakness in his voice, as though the pain had robbed him of breath. "I should've sent you away the moment we escaped the mob. I knew I should... but you looked so fragile, so alone.”
Tessa squirmed inwardly, bedeviled by images of herself weeping in this man's arms the night before, sobbing out to him secrets she had shielded for so long. And she wanted to flee from the light in his eyes, flee from his gentleness.
"I've been fending off the wolves from my own door since I was a child," she snapped, "and I promise you, there is nothing fragile about—"
"About the dreams misting your eyes? Sorrows... an angel's smile, but so sad."
She stiffened, started to turn away, but the seafarer's fingers caught her wrist in a grasp that was stunningly strong, considering his condition.
"Don't," he breathed. "Tessa—"
Her gaze darted to his, her eyes blazing. She expected to discover subtle scorn in the Spaniard's handsome face, but she saw nothing except compassion and an unsettling understanding.
His fathomless blue eyes gleamed in the flickering torchlight, and she thought fleetingly of the tales of noble heroes her father had strung for her like pretty beads when she was a child.
Honor and courage were etched deep in the lines of Rafael Santadar's lean face, mingled with a bewitching aura of otherworldliness, as though he had never been tarnished by the ugliness all around him.
Tessa started at the fanciful thought, and reality came crashing down upon her with dizzying force. Witling! she cursed herself and tried to drag her shattered defenses about her and again conceal from the world the starry-eyed girl she had been, the child who had believed in love ballads and quests and galla
nt knights who gave their hearts.
"You shouldn't have come here with me." Santadar's deep voice drew her from her thoughts. "You should have left me to my fate."
Clenching her jaw, she pulled away from his touch. She had uncharacteristically exposed her vulnerability to this man but now it frosted over into her accustomed diamond-hard mask.
"Aye, I should have dashed into Warburton's arms like some lusty harlot and just let you bleed to death." An ironic laugh choked her. "Not that my actions will matter in the end—for the soldiers will kill you, and I—I'll be forced to play the whore."
"If that bastard touches you, I'll kill him!" Santadar's cheeks flushed with fury, and he tried to stand up. His leg cracked hard into a half-rotted timber, and he cursed as he fell back onto the hay. Tessa stared in horror as fresh crimson spread over his tattered breeches, the new, bright blood stain mingling with the earlier, darker one.
"Lie still!" she commanded, rushing to retrieve the sash and flask from where the nobleman had thrown them. "God's teeth, if you don't stop having temper fits every time I turn around, that wound will never have a chance to heal!" she railed as she hastened back to his side.
He had pressed one hand over the wound, and scarlet blood was flowing between his fingers. Tessa saw a pinched, sickly expression steal across his face. "That has ever... been a fault of mine. Temper fits, I mean." She could see a muzzy quality in Rafe's eyes, and his breath came in short gasps as a weak laugh breached his lips. "I'll have to take... lessons in patience from... you."
Tessa's cheeks flamed as she dropped to her knees beside him. "If you had but tended the blasted thing earlier—"
"I had precious... little time. I was shipwrecked; I crawled up on shore. Then you—you fell off the cliff into my lap."
Against her will, Tessa felt a smile toy with the corners of her mouth. "And Warburton had the ill manners to carry you halfway across the countryside."
A wobbly grin slashed across Rafe's face, making him appear achingly boyish. "Sí, wildwitch. It was most uncivil of him."
To Chase the Storm Page 7
