To Chase the Storm

by Kimberly Cates

  But as Warvaliant disappeared with Tessa of Ravenscroft, it was as though Rafe had plummeted into the depths of hell.

  Chapter 7

  The chamber bled crimson velvet, and the dark wood panels reflected the light from scores of burning tapers. Tessa fought the urge to retch, as the walls closed in about her, trapping her in Neville Warburton's hellish lair.

  Jewels and fur-trimmed garments lay everywhere, cast about by a careless hand, and the mullioned panes of the narrow window glinted like rats' eyes in the night. Yet though the massive bed loomed before her, its black velvet draperies whispering of the horrors to come, all she could see was Rafe's face as she was dragged from the dungeon. All she could hear was his voice as he pleaded with Warburton to show her mercy.

  Tessa's stomach churned when her eyes flicked back to where Lord Neville stood, ripping his doublet from his massive chest, as thickly furred as an ape's. There was no mercy in Neville Warburton, no trace of the innate honor that glowed in Rafael Santadar's face. The English lord would use them both, take the greatest of glee in breaking them, and then forget they had ever existed.

  Warburton was greedy for their pain, thirsting to grind Rafael beneath his heel, hungering to crush Tessa with his body and then use her destruction to torture the Spaniard below.

  Her gaze narrowed and despite the fear roiling within her, Tessa steeled herself to show the beast no sign of her terror. She would rob his lordship of that bloody pleasure, at least, God curse him.

  Her neck arched, her lip curled with that same fiery arrogance she had seen in Rafe as he faced impossible odds, and she vowed that no matter what happened in the hours to come, she would not let Warburton break her.

  A sudden hot strength seemed to pour into Tessa as Rafe's eyes, dark with nobility, rose in her mind, and her chin jutted upward in stubborn resolve. She was no cowering court belle, afraid of her own shadow, no delicate Spanish blossom tended by duennas and scowling uncles.

  Would she endure Warburton's brutality? Allow herself to become the nobleman's victim? Abandon Rafe to the English earl's cruel whims? When England sinks into the sea! Tessa swore silently. Nay, she would contrive to best the dull-witted beast, escape him. And then... then she would find a way to gain the release of the Spaniard who had touched her heart.

  Her resolve faltered when she remembered the massive door sealing off the dungeon, secured not only by bands of iron but by two stout men-at-arms as well.

  She drove the doubts from her mind, clenching her fists in determination. Leap one fence at a time, Tessa, she warned herself, gazing around the opulent chamber. First find a weapon and dispatch Warburton. Then—she glanced at the door and was unable to suppress an inward shudder as she remembered the nobleman bellowing to his servants. What was it that he had threatened? That he would break the arm of any who dared disturb him this night? Even if she was unable to escape rape at Warburton's hands, perhaps she could slip out later while he lay sleeping.

  She jumped as a coarse laugh shattered her feverish plotting, her gaze snapping to where the nobleman stood.

  "This is the finest chamber you have ever been bedded in, eh, wench?" he jeered, shrugging his doublet off and throwing the elegant garment on the floor. "And this—" His fingers moved to the fastenings of his hose, one hand lewdly cupping the bulge of his codpiece. "I vow to you this will be the stoutest sword you have ever been impaled upon."

  Bile rose in Tessa's throat, but she forced it back, her nose crinkling as if scenting something rank. She needed to find some way to goad the nobleman, enrage him so that she could quell the awful sense of powerlessness eating away at her courage.

  She tossed her head and let a scornful laugh trill upon the air. "I fear your sword will seem a frail reed indeed, my lord, next to the Spaniard's bold blade."

  Fury twisted Warburton's features, and it took all of Tessa's will not to flee to the other side of the room before the nobleman's rage.

  Warburton's barrel chest heaved beneath its fuzz of red hair, his belly quivering where it spilled out over the band of his hose. But despite the ravages of excess evident in his body, his meaty clenched fists and his savage snarl left no doubt as to the ferocity the earl was capable of. As he turned on Tessa, she saw the folly in baiting a hungry bear.

  "So, puppet mistress"—Warburton's rage hissed in his voice—"you were fool enough to sample the Spanish swordsman's thrusts?" Lord Neville stalked toward her, his hands flexing. "Our queen will find that most disturbing. But it will banish any question she might have had as to where your loyalties lie."

  Tessa swallowed hard, then wheeled and walked away from the earl in an effort to conceal the effect his words had had upon her. She paused and looked out the window, but from the corner of her eye she glimpsed a heavy bronze candelabrum.

  "A night in Captain Santadar's arms was well worth incurring the queen's displeasure," she said.

  "Displeasure? You will face a damn sight more than Her Majesty's displeasure, puppet mistress! Tell me, was your night with that Spanish dog worth the traitor's death you now face, milady? Will you clutch the memory to you as the hangman's noose half strangles you? When they cut you down while you still breathe? When the knife bites into that soft, sweet belly of yours, will you be thinking of Santadar?"

  The mullioned panes of the window swam before Tessa's eyes, her imagination painting vivid pictures of the hideous fate she had heard described in such detail. To be hanged, then drawn and quartered was the most agonizing death that diabolical minds had been able to devise—hours of torture inflicted before a jeering crowd.

  She flinched as the earl's hand crushed the soft flesh of her cheeks, and was stunned to find him inches from where she stood. Her gaze snapped up to his glowing devil's-eyes. His fetid breath soiled her face; his lips were wet and eager.

  "Nay, Tessa," he sneered, his thumb grinding against the fragile pulse in her throat. "Don't try to hide your fear from me. I can smell it on you, taste it. It makes me hungry, puppet mistress, for what you gave Santadar."

  Confusion pierced Tessa's terror for an instant as she sorted through her muddled thoughts. What she gave Santadar? She clenched her eyes shut, a sob lodging in her throat as she pictured the perfectly honed planes of the Spaniard's face, remembered the fierce tenderness of his lips upon hers. If only she had given Rafe what Warburton would so brutally wrench from her, maybe she could have lost herself in the wondrous memories while the English nobleman fell upon her. But to cast her maidenhead before a swine like Warburton—

  Pain drove itself through her breast as Warburton's greedy fingers squeezed the tender flesh. Tessa could not keep a cry of pain from breaching her lips.

  "Are you thinking of him, whore?" Warburton sneered. "Your Spanish lover? Well, this I vow to you: When I have done with you, the only man you will remember betwixt your legs will be the Earl of Warvaliant, and the memory will be like a nightmare."

  Tessa stifled a scream, panic bolting through her as the nobleman slammed her down on the bed, pinning her against the sheets. Bruising fingers groped beneath her gown, his lips grinding down on hers.

  And in that instant Tessa understood the full scope of the horror that was about to befall her. Desperate, she sank her teeth deep into the earl's lip. Blood spilled into her mouth. Her stomach turned, and she was nearly deafened by Warburton's roar of pain and fury as the hulking Englishman reared away from her. She caught a glimpse of his face, and her heart froze.

  Crimson gushed from the gash in his mouth. His eyes glowed with a crazed, murderous light. "Bitch!" he shrieked, one hand swiping at his chin. "I'll kill you!"

  Tessa struggled to escape from beneath his weight, her fingers clawing at his face, legs thrashing. Warburton's fist cracked into her jaw. Shards of pain shot through Tessa's skull, but she fought against them, then saw her chance as the nobleman drew back to deal her another blow.

  With a strength she hadn't known she possessed, Tessa slammed her knee into the bulge at the apex of Warburton's thig
hs. Warburton bellowed like a wounded beast as he rolled to one side. With a mighty shove, Tessa scrambled from underneath him, searching desperately for something, anything, to use as a weapon.

  Her gaze again locked upon the candelabrum, and she lunged for it.

  "You'll die for that," she heard Warburton vow. "You'll die!"

  A sob rose in Tessa's throat as her hand closed around the heavy chunk of bronze. With a cry, she whirled and swung the candlestick with all her might, driving it into Warburton's skull with sickening force. His head reeled to one side. Tessa couldn't breathe. Horror choked her as she saw him crumple back onto the bed, crimson blood flowing from a jagged cut arcing across the left side of his face.

  The eyes that had regarded her so cruelly rolled back in their sockets, and his mouth gaped wide, as though frozen in a scream.

  Had she killed him? she thought wildly, her hands shaking as she clutched the chunk of bronze. She flung the candelabrum away and staggered back from the massive bed, her eyes fixed upon the inert Warburton. Scum though the man was, renowned for his brutality, and regarded with distaste in Elizabeth's court, he was nevertheless of noble blood while Tessa was nothing but chaff to be trampled beneath the feet of the nobility.

  If she was discovered...

  Panic surged in her breast, her gaze darting to the massive carved chamber door. It was still closed, and no sound emanated from the hallway beyond. As she held her breath, she half expected to hear a shrill alarm and the sound of heavy footfalls running toward the chamber.

  No one knew what she had done, she told herself, desperately trying to wade through the waves of panic into calm. Even Warvaliant's minions could not see through thick stone walls, and his lordship had threatened bodily harm to anyone who dared disturb him.

  She forced her gaze back to where Lord Neville lay sprawled on the bed, then wiped the back of her hand against lips that felt soiled by his mouth. She knew she had to get out of there before her crime was discovered—if she could remember the way.

  She closed her eyes a moment, struggling to recall the maze of corridors that was Warvaliant Castle. Three times before she had been here to peddle her wares; three times she had wandered about the forbidding stone fortress, discovering ways to slip from its grasp. It had been a game then, like trying to unravel the secret of a mythical labyrinth, but now she would play in deadly earnest. For somewhere, lost among those corridors, lay Rafael Santadar.

  If she could free him and get him out to the gardens, they could escape together.

  The absurdity of her plan struck her. It would be a feat worthy of legend if she could slip from Warvaliant's grasp alone. To even attempt to find Rafe was insanity. She could not even remember the way to the dungeon, let alone to the cell where Rafe was imprisoned. And how could she gain possession of the key to the cursed door?

  Tessa pressed quivering fingers to her throat. Her memory filled with the glowing hues of the ring that had hung about Rafe's neck, and the St. Cyr device engraved thereon seemed to whisper of hope. If she could escape Warvaliant herself and go to Valcour Castle, Tarrant St. Cyr, that mighty nobleman, could then hasten to Warvaliant and rip Rafael from the fortress's stone fist.

  Unless Rafe lies dead by then, a silent voice jeered, and Tessa's fingers clenched as she faced another horror: When Warburton's men discovered that their lord had been killed, would they not be mad for vengeance against the peddler girl who had cost Warburton his life? And when they realized she had slipped out of their net, would they not turn upon whatever victim lay vulnerable to their wrath?

  Rafe's wound was dangerous enough already. Even if Lord Neville's men did not murder Rafe, fever could seize him in the time it would take her to reach Valcour Castle afoot. The injury could putrefy, and there would be no one to care for him.

  But to try to free Rafe from the dungeon herself was madness.

  Tessa sucked in a shivery breath.

  "Let the girl go... "

  Rafe's words echoed through her, spiraling her back into the dank cell alight only with the Spaniard's honor. His features haunted her, the sharp planes and harsh angles softened by tenderness, his eyes warm upon her face.

  "Rafael Santadar," she murmured to herself, "I'll not leave you to rot in that hellhole."

  Yet if she hoped to rescue him she would need to arm herself. Her gaze flashed about the room, searching for a deadlier weapon than the candlestick. With shaking hands she flung open a carved chest and plundered its contents.

  She found a black mantle and threw it about her shoulders, along with another of sapphire velvet that she intended to use to shield Rafe from the chill night winds, should the two of them escape to the moon-dark wilds. Next she affixed a dagger with amethysts bunched like grapes upon its sheath about her waist with a saffron-colored sash. Though the knife provided her some small comfort, she knew it would be of little use against the broadswords of Warburton's retainers.

  She bent over the chest one more time, digging deep, and caught her breath as her fingers brushed something long and metallic. Her hand closed about it, and she pulled it out from among the satin doublets and wool shirts. Triumph surged through her as she straightened, clutching a lavishly engraved pistol.

  She hefted it, the weapon incredibly heavy in her hands. Never before had she held one of these new weapons, and she had no notion of how to fire the thing even when it was primed and ready. She stuffed a powder horn and a bag of lead pistolballs into her sash, hoping no one she confronted would sense her ignorance.

  Tightening her grip on the pistol, she hastened toward the door and eased it open a crack. There was no one outside. The halls of Warvaliant yawned before her like an empty tomb. With the greatest of care, she slipped into the hallway.

  The very shadows that pooled upon the floor seemed to be specters of earls long dead, whispering and watching. Tessa ignored them as she hastened through the dim tapestry-draped passageway, her heart thundering, her fingers icy. She wound her way deeper into the castle's bowels until her gaze caught the glow of light from a stairway that plunged downward. She ran toward the steps, fear thrumming through her.

  She was about to slip into that torchlit stairway and plunge down to the dungeon when suddenly the clomp of footfalls drifted toward her from the bottom of the steps. The sound struck terror in Tessa's heart.

  God's wounds, someone was coming!

  The pistol almost slipped from her sweat-soaked hands as she threw herself behind a leather trunk, banging her hip painfully on an iron-bound corner as she concealed herself.

  Yet there was small hope of that. Even if whoever was climbing the stairs could not see her, the hiss of her breath seemed deafening and the thundering of her heart was certain to betray her. She knew her fear must be radiating off the stone walls in waves that seasoned warriors could scent as easily as wolves scented their prey. Tessa struggled to calm herself, her fingers clenching about the pistol as the footsteps drew nearer and nearer.

  It was more than one person, she deduced by the sound, and there was little doubt but that they were men. Some of the retainers she had seen swarming about the castle when she and Rafe were dragged through the gates?

  She swallowed hard at the memory of the guards, their armor glinting, their eyes savage, and she peeked out from behind the trunk, half expecting a horde of them to descend upon her. But the curving passageway still hid them from her view.

  She heard them jeering at someone as they approached. She could sense contempt in their voices, even though their words were muffled by the thick stone walls. As she strained to understand them, gleaming silver and rich scarlet suddenly flashed against the ashlar.

  Her hands shook as the embodiment of her worst fears stalked out of the shadows—four of Warburton's men, their lips curled in hate-filled snarls as they turned their scorn upon the man who walked in their midst. Tessa tried to peer through the maze of armor-clad legs to see the poor wretch they held at their mercy, but she could see no one—until, as though moved by her v
ery will, one of the guards shifted out of the way.

  Tessa's gaze swept over the solitary captive among the guards as light from the sconce bled over his flowing shirt and gray-blue breeches.

  Rafe.

  She gaped at him from behind the trunk, almost betraying herself with a stunned gasp. What had they done to him? His bound hands were raw and bleeding as though his knuckles had been ground against the cell's stone walls. A wicked bruise encircled one eye, yet even that ugly swelling did not conceal the desperation in those indigo depths.

  Had they beaten him? Tortured him? Nay. Tessa knew instinctively that mere brutality could never have carved such agony across Rafael's features. It was Tessa herself, his helplessness to save her, which had nearly broken that fierce will.

  Her eyes burned, but she stifled the sob knotting in her breast. She would do Rafe precious little good cowering here, weeping over him. She needed to aid him. Yet if she leapt from her hiding place and tried to wrest Rafe from the guards' grasp, it would be to no avail. The four of them would lunge for her despite the pistol, trusting the others to overpower her if she managed to fire.

  But where were they taking Rafe? Had Warburton given orders regarding the Spaniard before he dragged Tessa to the chamber above? Had he decided to dare Elizabeth Tudor's wrath by disposing of the hated Santadar himself? Or was Lord Neville merely sending his caged lion to London to await the queen's punishment? If so, this would be Tessa's only chance to help him.

  She steeled herself, ready to act, regardless of the consequences, when suddenly her gaze locked with eyes of pure indigo, eyes wide with stunned elation.

  Pale lips formed her name, soundlessly with aching sweetness, and the crushing anguish that had ravaged Rafe's face was replaced for an instant by triumph.

  As quickly as the emotions had streaked across his face they were gone, but a fierce pride now stiffened Rafe's shoulders, as though the sight of her, free, had given him strength.