The Crimson Lady (16 page)

“Christ, Will, where is she?”

She couldn’t hear much more but a muffled response from someone that sounded like her brother, but she couldn’t be sure. Unless she could get the soldier holding her to move back toward them, she’d not be able to see anything. She shifted her weight sideways, suddenly, throwing him off-balance—not enough to allow her escape, but sufficient to make him take a step or two nearer to where she’d been when the attack began. Her movement caught Braedan’s notice, and as she was jerked to attention again by the blade and growled command from her captor, Braedan’s startled gaze met hers for an instant.

He made a move as if he would come toward her, but he was held back from the action by necessity of keeping at bay the two men he faced down with his sword. “Are you hurt?” he called across the short distance between them, no longer looking at her, thanks to the standoff. She tried to reply, but her answer was choked back as the man holding her pressed the dagger more firmly against her throat.

Will stood, chest heaving and his face sheened with sweat, near Braedan, and though he held his weapon up in a defensive pose, blood darkened his sleeve from an apparent gash near his shoulder. But he kept the soldier opposite him occupied, forcing him to keep complete attention on their upraised blades. Four of the original eight attackers lay motionless in various positions on the ground—whether wounded or dead, she couldn’t tell—but another still stood, having pinned Rufus on his back near the edge of the trees. Tom lay still and very pale, sprawled in a thickening pool of blood a few paces from Henry, who also wasn’t moving, though he didn’t seem to have any wounds that she could see. Jepthas was nowhere to be seen.

Tension blanketed the area, so thick that she felt she might suffocate; no sound marred the silence but the breeze in the branches overhead, a few rumbles of thunder, and the occasional muttered curse that came from one of the men in their positions of combat impasse. It was an uneasy standoff, with no means of resolution that she could see.

Then a movement and the shifting of curtains from inside the coach pulled everyone’s attention in that direction and worsened everything, if it were possible, a thousandfold.

The distraction sparked the scuffling between the men again, only this time her brother’s still heavily bleeding wound made the outcome less favorable. After a few fierce clashes with his opponent, Will began to stumble—whether from loss of blood or another strike, Fiona couldn’t tell—but it meant that Braedan had to shift his attention to cover him, and in that moment, the standoff was over. The two soldiers converged and man
aged to disarm Braedan, throwing his weapon aside and binding his hands tightly in front of him before doing the same for the injured Will, lashing the two of them together with a piece of rope. Finally, they helped their third comrade to drag Rufus over to be tied to them as well—and then the soldiers stepped back, swords leveled at their captives, waiting. For what, Fiona wasn’t entirely sure…

Until the door at the side of the coach creaked open, and a hooded, cloaked figure stepped out.

Fiona’s back tightened, stabs of shock racing up her spine in the instant before the man straightened to full height and reached his gloved hands up to ease his hood back. The images flashed into her mind then with stunning, brutal force. He was tall and well built, garbed in black, from his fine leather boots to the cape draping from his shoulders, all except for a sashed tunic of deep sapphire. Even the waves of his shoulder-length hair were black, as were his eyes—a fathomless obsidian, she knew, before he ever turned his exquisitely handsome face to lock his gaze with hers. When he did, it was as if time stood still and she’d been sucked into some sickening, airless void, pulled into the depths of a quagmire from which she knew she’d never escape.

Draven
.

Sweet God, it was Draven standing before her, staring at her. And as she struggled to control the trembling that began deep inside at that realization, his lips slowly curved into a smile. He made no effort to order his man to stand down and release her, rather seeming, by his expression, to enjoy the precarious position she was in, taking his time in pulling off his gloves, one finger at a time, as he approached her.

“Ah, Giselle; it has been too long…” His words trailed off, the tone he used as deep and velvety smooth as always. He stopped when he was very close to her, his familiar, faintly spicy scent hitting her like a fist to the belly. “Have you no greeting for me, then?” he asked with a hint of mockery, clearly aware that she couldn’t speak a word with the dagger pressed against her throat. She wouldn’t have anyway. It was all she could do to keep the impassive facade she’d been struggling to maintain since the moment he’d stepped from the carriage; she’d not give him the satisfaction of hearing her voice shaking atop it all.

With a motion of his hand, he ordered the soldier to release her. The man seemed grateful to comply and quickly stepped back a few paces. With the regained freedom, Fiona let her arms fall to her sides, surreptitiously pressing her fingers against her thighs and then letting up on the pressure, trying to banish the numbness his grip had caused.

Draven watched her in silence, his expression inscrutable. She met his gaze, reminding herself to be strong, to show no emotion. She could do this. If she could just get some of the feeling back in her hands, she might be able to reach for the blade tucked under her sleeve. At the very least it would be useful for defending herself against Draven or his remaining men, and at most it might turn the tides, providing some time so that Braedan and the others could somehow escape. A burning tingle already raced through her palms and up her arms. Aye, it was working…

“Give me your dagger, Giselle.”

Surprise caught her for an instant. The command in Draven’s voice was unmistakable, but she wasn’t about
to surrender her only chance at freedom. Before she could utter a denial he made a move toward her, and she jerked the weapon instinctively into her hand, the action swift and fluid.

Draven was faster. He intercepted the dagger before she had the hilt of it fully clasped in her palm. With a simple flick of his fingers, the blade sank into the ground at their feet, at the same time that he caught her wrist in a punishing grip.

“It was I who taught you that move, sweet. ’Tis foolish of you to attempt its use on me now.” His glance swept over her, assessing her, leaving a chill in its wake. “I see that what I had feared has indeed come to pass; you’ve become quite disobedient in your absence.”

Never releasing her gaze or her wrist, he leaned in closer and still closer, not touching her anywhere else and yet somehow leaving her feeling as if he was taking possession of her again completely, just as he had years ago. She held very still, determined to show no fear, no reaction at all. But then slowly, he reached out with his other hand and threaded his elegant fingers into her hair, his touch warm and insistent as he cupped her head with his palm.

Tingles of shock jabbed through her.
Oh, God, he was going to kiss her
. He would press his lips to hers, his touch intimate, questing…invading her in that way he knew so well. He was a master of the art, and the memory of the way his kisses had shattered her so many times before terrified her now. She held her breath, the panic spreading.

But at the very last moment before his mouth would have slanted across hers, he turned his head, his breath fanning her cheek warmly, his lips brushing her ear as he
murmured for her hearing alone, “My defiant, naughty Giselle. You know I cannot kiss you until you are properly dressed. As I’ve told you many times before, only one hue is suitable for you, and it alone should comprise your wardrobe. You belong in crimson—nothing else.”

Her stomach clenched, and she couldn’t stop herself from arching away from him. He pulled back just enough to look into her eyes, that perfect smile of his chilling her to the bone. Her throat ached with the rasping breaths she took, her body frozen with anguished memories, unable to strike out at him as her mind and heart longed to do.

“Yes, we have a good deal of catching up to do, you and I,” he continued quietly. His gaze held her captive, his finger sliding along her cheek, down to the stinging cut his soldier had left on her throat, his gentle touch stroking away the thin line of blood. “It is clear that you need reminding of certain truths about yourself and me, and I confess that I’ve been anticipating the process of helping you remember for a very long time.”

“Leave her alone, Draven.”

Braedan’s voice rang across the area between them. Her nemesis stiffened, his handsome face tightening almost imperceptibly. But he didn’t turn around. Not yet.

“And why would I do that,
nephew
?” Draven asked softly, never taking his stare from Fiona’s face. “She’s mine.”

“Not anymore.”

The iciness that swept through Draven’s eyes in response to that comment nearly made Fiona gasp, but she maintained her composure. His gaze bored into her, his expression implacable and yet at the same time somehow pained, as he murmured, “How disappointing…”

Swiveling to face Braedan, he said more loudly, “…but whether or not you’ve managed to sample Giselle’s charms, de Cantor, you should make no mistake about the fact that she
is
mine. She always will be. We were just speaking of reminders to that effect, moments ago.” He swung back toward her again, both his expression and his tone ripe with mockery. “Weren’t we, darling?”

“We were discussing nothing,” Fiona managed to say through the tightness in her throat.

“If I thought you’d abide by any laws at all,” Braedan ground out, “or that you would comport yourself as the nobleman you’re supposed to be, I’d throw down my challenge right now and force you to prove your claim on the field.”

“How thrilling. So valiant of you,” Draven mocked before stifling a yawn. “Your fervor was entertaining for the first week, nephew, but I am afraid that you’ve become quite a bore now. Almost as bad as that vacuous young woman who started all of this between us. Thank heaven none of us share a blood connection, or I might believe I have cause for worry.”

“You’re not fit to speak of Elizabeth.” Braedan took a threatening step toward Draven, yanking Will and Rufus with him, much to the chagrin of their guards. “And you will pay for what you’ve done to her. Make no mistake on it.”

“Pray let us not be quite so dramatic, shall we?” Draven carefully pulled his gloves back on again, and Fiona shivered, remembering too well how he used that elegant affectation—along with several more—to divert others’ attention from his impressive physical strength and fighting abilities. “No one had made an offer for her
yet, even with the ridiculous dowry your sire had set aside for the purpose. In truth, I did nothing but aid her on her chosen path—a fact that your brother conveniently omitted from the tale he told you of her leaving.”

“You’re a liar.”

“And you, it seems, have become a thief, in addition to your many other sins,” Draven answered dryly, nodding to his man to stand guard over her again as he approached Braedan with slow, sauntering steps. “I wonder what the virtuous Julia would think to learn of it, eh?” he added, and Fiona startled at the look of pain that crossed Braedan’s face before he was able to mask the expression.

“I confess, having witnessed your overdone sense of honor myself,” Draven continued, “I didn’t give much credence to the information I’d received of your alliance with this ragtag lot.” His gaze swept over Will and the others. “But it appears now that my sources were correct. How unfortunate for you, that you’ve been stupid enough to cross my path again with your head still attached to your neck. I think I shall take great enjoyment in witnessing it struck off.”

“You need me secured in your custody for that,
uncle
. Something that proved quite beyond your grasp the last time you attempted it, if you recall.” Braedan nodded toward the bodies of four of Draven’s soldiers, sprawled on the roadside. “But if you’re so eager to keep sacrificing your men in the effort, pray continue. It gives me the practice I need, though it is costly on your part; I think the count I’ve dispatched for you stands at eight now, doesn’t it?”

Draven flushed, not answering at first, though Fiona could tell the statement rankled. “You’re in no position
to be making threats, de Cantor,” he said. “And never fear; containing you won’t pose a difficulty this time. I’ve arranged everything to ensure you’re unlikely to move from whatever cell you’re put in, once I’m through with you.”

Thunder rumbled overhead again, louder than before. It was followed by a flash and another boom, setting off a swish of cooler breeze through the stifling air. Then a light rain began to fall. Draven squinted up into the droplets, cursing under his breath. “Come, we haven’t much time before it will be a deluge,” he muttered to his men, then nodded in the direction of their captives. “Get them secured behind the coach.” Looking back through the thickening shower toward Fiona, he started forward, barking a command to her guard to confine her inside the conveyance for the ride back to his estate.

But when he was halfway there, a flurry of movement broke out behind him. With a shout of warning to Will and Rufus, Braedan lunged forward, pulling them with him, connected as they were by the ropes. Together, they knocked the two closest guards off their feet, but the third jumped out of the way and then came at them, followed by Draven, who was heading back toward them to help his guards in the fray.

Seeing a moment of opportunity in the confusion, Fiona darted forward, focused on reaching her weapon, which was still buried up to the hilt in the ground. But the soldier in charge of her grabbed at her, and she slipped on the rain-slicked grasses at the roadside. In the motion, he caught her wrist, wrenching her backward and drawing a cry from her as she instinctively clutched at her arm to try to stem the pain that shot all the way up into her shoulder.

Draven whirled back to her at the sound, calling an order over his shoulder to his other men to contain their rebelling captives before his expression fixed on her guard with deadly intent. “I warned you before not to harm her,” he muttered, stalking toward the soldier, “a command that you’ve now disregarded twice!”