Wolfsbane

by N. J. Layouni

  His gut tensed. Perhaps he had misread her?

  She licked the rain from her lips. Whether it was an act of innocence or provocation, he could not tell. Heat coiled within him.

  The stick she carried made a hollow clatter as it hit the ground, abandoned and apparently unwanted.

  He held his breath as she placed her hands on the hard leather of his hauberk. Her hands slid upward, gliding over his chest. With a tiny smile, she linked her arms about the back of his neck.

  He dared not move for fear of scaring her, but his self-mastery cost him dearly. It was all he could do to stifle a groan as she wantonly pressed her soft body up against his. No feather bed could be more inviting. Raindrops glistened on her slightly parted lips. He could not look away from her. The hunger in her eyes rivaled his own.

  He needed to touch her. Still holding his sword in one hand, he pulled her into a clumsy embrace. Blood pounded in his ears, dispelling the last of his uncertainty. She still wanted him; that much was certain.

  This woman of his changed like the weather.

  Standing on her tiptoes, she strained to reach his lips. Vadim held back, determined not to let her have it all on her terms. He was still smarting from the wounds her earlier comments about Anselm had given him.

  Let her earn her kiss. He could resist her… for a few seconds more.

  The sudden flash of her eyes told him she understood.

  Without warning, she grabbed a handful of his sodden hair, forcibly dragging him to her level. Pain seared his scalp, but it was not unwelcome. Like a warm summer breeze, her breath brushed over his lips.

  “Witch,” he growled softly, all thoughts of resisting her gone.

  “Am I?” She arched her eyebrows. “So, burn me… if you can.”

  He needed no other invitation.

  His lips brushed gently over hers, a slow reacquaintance following a long absence. This restrained politeness did not last. The taste of her sparked a violent need within his heart. Leaning back against the ruined wagon, he pulled her with him, crushing her to the hardness of his body as if by doing so he could assuage the ache within himself.

  Without hesitation, she opened her mouth to him, countering his brutal kiss with a savageness of her own. Her small moan of satisfaction set a burst of hot need flaring in his groin. If he was rough with her, she was much less gentle with him. Tangling her hands in his hair, she clung to him, kissing him with a frenzy that had him trembling. And he did not want her any other way.

  He took what she offered, reclaiming her as his own, while her soft mewling sounds of want pushed him to the brink of control. She tasted better than all the imaginings of his fevered memory.

  As Martha’s hand strayed to his belt, tugging to pull it loose, several loud, lusty catcalls penetrated his love-fogged mind.

  Wrenching himself from the oblivion of her kiss, he looked around. Three grinning men staggered in their direction, swigging from the squat bottles in their hands. The men had apparently discovered the earl’s private store of imported wine. Despite his frustration, Vadim smiled. That would not please His Lordship at all.

  He raised his hand in greeting, stifling his irritation at their untimely interruption. He knew these men. They were simple, honest folk, and as intoxicated as they were, he might have a use for them.

  “Well met, m’lord!” The bearded man cried. “You have already made off with the treasure, I see.”

  With a disgusted little ugh!, Martha buried her face against Vadim’s arm.

  He chuckled and held her to him. ’Twas hardly the subtlest remark, but it amused him nonetheless.

  “Indeed I have,” he called in answer. “The greatest of all Edgeway’s treasures.” As he spoke, he trailed his fingers up the length of Martha’s spine, unable to resist the novelty of touching her. “This rare and precious gem, gentlemen, is my own beloved wife.”

  Martha raised her face, her cheeks hot with color. “God! Not you as well?”

  The men raised their bottles, bellowing their approval.

  Vadim stroked a strand of hair back from her face. “You have an objection to compliments, my love?”

  “Yes, when they’re as bad as that.” She grimaced. “Can we just go? My stomach is delicate enough as it is.”

  He tweaked her nose. “In a moment, you hard-hearted wench.”

  The men stood grinning before them, listing from side to side. They were saturated—soaked through with both rain and alcohol—but their faces glowed with good humor.

  “Here you are.” The stout, bearded fellow thrust a bottle into Vadim’s hand. “Let us drink to your nuptials, my friend.”

  “Aye. Drink hard, m’lord,” added the youngest man. “Tupping is thirsty work.”

  Martha rolled her eyes, and Vadim laughed at her expression of revulsion.

  “Be warned, my friends,” he said. “My good lady disapproves of coarse remarks. Have a care you do not offend her delicate sensibilities too badly.”

  Their names were not as familiar to him as their faces. He raised the bottle to his lips, attempting to recall them. The wine washed over his tongue, rich and fruitful, bursting with the flavor of a faraway land. As he swallowed, he was transported back to the sunny slopes of the country where the grape had grown.

  With regret, he handed the bottle back. The earl and Anselm still roamed free. It would not do to face them half-cut. Even wounded, they were dangerous.

  The wine must have lubricated his memory, for the soldiers names suddenly came to him: Tom, Edric, and Harold.

  The youngest, Tom, offered the bottle to Martha. “By way of an… apology for our ungallant be-behavior, m’lady.” He spoke slowly to disguise his slurred speech.

  “Oh… thanks.” Martha wiped the mouth of the bottle on her skirt then took a few delicate sips. “Not bad,” she said, handing the bottle back. “But I’d prefer one of those rock biscuits, if you have any.”

  “Rock wafer?” The bearded Edric fished about in his pocket and handed her a linen bundle. “Here. Take them all, and welcome to them.” He grimaced. “Awful stuff.”

  Martha attacked the rock-wafer like a bear just woken from its long winter sleep. There was definitely something strange about her. The answer to the riddle hovered at the periphery of his mind, dancing away before he could catch it. Instead, Vadim returned his attention to the three merry men. “I have a boon to ask of you.”

  ***

  The killer butterflies were back. And they’d brought all their friends and relations too.

  Martha clutched Vadim’s hand as they hurried across the courtyard. Despite all the terrible carnage assaulting her eyes, her mouth was set in a perma-grin. She couldn’t help it.

  What was the collective term for butterflies, anyway? A swarm? Whatever it was, her chest fluttered as though it was crammed with dozens of tiny beating wings.

  Their kiss had wiped many of the shadows of doubt from her heart. She glanced at Vadim, striding along beside her. Love welled up inside her until she felt ready to burst.

  “It is most treacherous here underfoot.” Vadim frowned and stopped walking. Without asking for consent, he picked her up, lifting her over a large pool of congealed blood. “Have a care you do not slip when I set you down.”

  Martha held onto him, her arms about his neck, staring into the depths of his dark eyes. “Yes, m’lord,” she said meekly. With deliberate slowness, she slid down the hard, lean length of his body until her feet eventually touched the cobbled floor.

  Vadim’s eyes flared, and his mouth compressed into a harsh line. A tic pulsed rapidly in his jaw. Hands tightening about her waist, he slowly reeled her in.

  She clenched her thighs together in an attempt to ease her discomfort. If she didn’t get some alone time soon—

  “Would you assist me too, m’lord?” a raucous voice demanded, reclaiming their attention
.

  Martha ground her teeth at the bellowing laughter that followed. Damn it. For a brief and wonderful moment, she’d forgotten all about the Chuckle Brothers. Vadim only smiled and set off walking, heading for the small doorway that led to the barbican.

  Martha scowled, munching moodily on her rock wafer as she walked. Why the hell had Vadim invited those three idiots along? They were much too hammered to be useful.

  “Hold me, Edric!” A deep baritone voice attempted, rather unsuccessfully, to mimic a girlish voice. “Oh, take me to your manly breast.”

  Casting a glance over her shoulder, she caught the disturbing image of Harold in a passionate clinch with the bald-headed Edric.

  “Take your filthy hands off my bottles!” Edric cried with mock outrage.

  She snort-giggled and turned away, shaking her head. Fuckwits. She crunched down hard on her rock wafer, savoring its salty goodness, and turned her thoughts to the sobering subject of Anselm.

  In single file, they climbed the dark, narrow steps. Vadim led the way, leaving Martha sandwiched between him and the Chuckle Brothers. Even their voices failed to brighten the oppressive blackness of the stairwell.

  Anxiety spiked in her chest as all of her previous fears returned. Was Anselm dead or alive? How long had it been since she’d left him? Half an hour? She frowned. An hour? It was impossible to tell. So much had happened since then.

  Horrible things.

  Ferret’s leering face flashed in her mind. She flinched and shoved the image away. A graphic slo-mo replay of Jacob’s beheading immediately replaced it. Even now, she could hear the gruesome thuds as his head bounced along the corridor’s wooden floor.

  Such terrible things.

  She’d never forget the look on Vadim’s face as he took the man’s head: blank, and devoid of any emotion. It was difficult to reconcile the executioner with the tender man now holding her hand. She’d never seen him that way, and it had scared her. But what had she expected? That he’d rap the men over the knuckles and send them both for counseling?

  She had to keep reminding herself; this wasn’t the twenty-first-century world.

  They exited the door at the top of the stairs and stepped out into the driving rain.

  Martha glanced about the rooftop. He wasn’t there. Anselm had gone.

  The men stood in a huddle, watching as she hurried over to inspect the place he’d fallen. Not a trace of him remained. Even his blood had been washed away by the relentless rain. With rising agitation, she paced the empty rooftop, pointlessly hurrying from place to place. He couldn’t have moved. Not by himself.

  Splashing through the deep puddles, she went to look over to the battlements and peered down into the stagnant ditch. Nothing. She straightened up, raking back her sodden hair as she looked around. Where could he be?

  She was about to rejoin Vadim and the others when something caught her attention. She wiped her eyes with her hands then squinted into the driving rain.

  There was another doorway set deep into the hexagonal structure of the stairwell.

  When she’d been up here earlier with His Evilness, the angle of the building had effectively hidden it, but from this position, the door was more obvious, especially as it now swung back and forth in the gentle breeze.

  Anselm was in there. He had to be. She quickened her pace to a jog and headed for the door.

  “Martha, wait!”

  She ignored Vadim’s warning shout and kept going.

  A lump of stone on the door’s threshold had prevented it from closing. Flinging it open, Martha lowered her head and stepped inside.

  It opened onto a passageway. A solitary torch burned in a wall sconce, but its feeble light failed to penetrate the gloom, and cast more shadows than it banished.

  Where was he? She looked around, attempting to slow her panting breaths, which sounded unnaturally loud.

  As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she spotted the sole of a boot sticking out from the deeper shadows of an alcove. Her heart lurched.

  “Anselm!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Martha hurried to where Anselm lay and dropped to her knees. Even in this poor light, he looked pale. Was he dead? She grabbed his hand. It was limp and lifeless.

  “Anselm?” Briskly rubbing his hand between hers, she called to him again. “Anselm, can you hear me?” No response.

  Shit!

  She pressed her fingers to his neck, hunting for a pulse, but her hands were too cold to feel anything so delicate; her fingertips were numb. Muttering a curse, she stuck her icy digits into her mouth and sucked on them. They tasted disgusting, but it wouldn’t do to dwell on why. Instead, she stared at Anselm’s chest, hoping to see it rise and fall.

  A sudden thought struck her. Even if he was breathing, she wouldn’t see it, not with a great chunk of metal strapped to his chest. Duh! Had the rain washed away all her common sense?

  With slightly warmer fingers, she resumed her search for his carotid pulse. “Don’t you dare give up on me now, you fecker!” she muttered, hovering over him, her ear almost touching his mouth. Come on, damn it.

  The door creaked behind her. A pale shaft of daylight illuminated Anselm’s bloody hand where it lay palm up on the stone floor. Like flakes of rust, dried blood cracked and crumbled on his fingers. Then the door closed, and the image faded into shadow.

  “Is he dead?”

  Vadim. Did he have to sound quite so hopeful? “Shush!”

  A few seconds later, she exhaled, releasing her pent-up breath in a rush. “He’s breathing!” As if to confirm it, a pulse throbbed beneath her fingers with reassuring regularity. Thank you, God!

  “Of course he is,” Vadim muttered. “The devil never dies.”

  She turned her head, smiling up at his dark silhouette. “I never knew you could be so snarky, love. I like it.” Then she closed her eyes to focus on Anselm’s pulse. It wasn’t as strong as it ought to be, but at least it was there. For now.

  She took off the cloak Vadim had given her and draped it over Anselm’s body. The absence of its warmth made her shiver, but that couldn’t be helped. He needed it more than she did. Vadim made a disapproving sound, but Martha ignored him and concentrated on tucking the garment snugly around her patient.

  Anselm’s breastplate moved when she touched it. She frowned, her waterlogged brain finally slipping into the right gear. Who’d unfastened it? The leather straps were undone, and the close-fitting plate hung loose on one side—his injured side. Martha gasped when she looked beneath.

  A stout linen bandage swaddled his torso, and it had been in place for some time if the dark, blooming stain was anything to go by. Whoever applied the bandage had probably saved his life.

  Then, why was she so uneasy? The hairs on the back of her neck tingled and stood on end as the old spidey-sense sprang to life. By now, she knew better than to ignore its warnings.

  Why hadn’t Anselm’s mystery helper taken him to the infirmary?

  If getting him out of the rain had been the motive for moving him, why hadn’t they used the top of the stairwell, close to where he’d fallen? It was sheltered enough there.

  Anselm was no lightweight. Why go to the trouble of lugging him here, to a dark and isolated passageway? There might be several explanations, but as far as she was concerned, none of them were good.

  “Vadim…” She looked around and squealed as a man-shaped shadow emerged from the blackest end of the passageway. The wall torch flickered red on the blade of a sword—a sword aimed at the back of Vadim’s head.

  Before she could shout a more coherent warning, the shadow’s blade fell. But Vadim had already spun about, blocking the descending blow with his sword. The horrible sound of metal screeching upon metal made her teeth buzz.

  She couldn’t look. Covering her face with her hands, she watched the fight from between her fingers.


  Breathing hard, the opponents leaned into their locked swords. Then the shadow lunged, this time with his other hand.

  “Watch out!” Her warning came too late. Vadim gave a sharp hiss of pain then smashed his fist into his assailant’s face. The shadow man groaned and stumbled backward. Something metallic clattered to the floor. A dagger?

  Vadim flexed his left arm, clenching and unclenching his fist. The effort made him grimace.

  The shadow recovered quickly, launching himself at Vadim with a series of frenzied blows. “Outlaw scum!”

  That awful voice. It would probably haunt her forever.

  In the light of the wall torch, the shadow man finally revealed himself. Blood streamed from his nose, coating his bared teeth. His eyes glittered demon red in the torchlight.

  The Evil Earl.

  Vadim performed a hasty sidestep, shielding Martha from his deranged nemesis, and neatly wrong-footing the earl at the same time.

  “Get out of here.” Vadim shouted over his shoulder to her. “Now!”

  Then he went on the offensive, driving his enemy further back into the shadows with each powerful swing of his sword.

  She wasn’t going anywhere.

  Regretting the loss of her shit stick, Martha patted the ground, frantically hunting for something she could use as a weapon. The clanging of swords made it difficult to think clearly.

  As she groped around for a missile, a cold hand touched hers. She jumped. Anselm?

  He grasped her fingers, his grip so weak she barely felt it, slowly moving her hand toward his belt.

  Martha’s eyes bugged. What the hell was he doing? But his eyes remained closed. Was he dreaming?

  He guided her hand to a small leather sheath on his belt. Then she understood. His eating knife. That would do nicely. She smiled down at him though Anselm didn’t see it.

  She grabbed the little knife then leaned to whisper in his ear. “Keep breathing, d’you hear me?” A trace of a smile curved Anselm’s lips before his face slackened once more. She checked his pulse again. It was still there, beating steadily beneath her fingertips.