The Crimson Lady (26 page)

Throwing his head back, he squeezed his eyes shut as tightly as his fists, using all of his will to stay where he was until the whole group of them had gone from his sight and hearing.

They were heading for the river and on to Chepston; that seemed fairly certain, as his uncle’s estate stood across the Thames. Later Braedan was to meet Will’s band of men and any other outlaw gangs who’d decided to join him at the alehouse called the Bull, and the attack on Draven was to be planned then. Suddenly, though, time had become of the essence. They could no longer afford to take a few days in plotting it all out, not with Fiona’s safety hanging in the balance. There had to be a way to make it happen more quickly. Perhaps if he caught Will and the others at the city gates, instead of waiting to meet them at the Bull…

With that hopeful thought in mind, Braedan stumbled out of the alley and into the street, shaking the remaining fogginess from his brain before setting off at a run for the south end of London Bridge. He prayed that the drawbridge was already down to permit the crossing of travelers from Southwark to the city proper, hoping against hope that the other outlaws would agree to join
him and Will’s men in launching their attack on Draven later today. If not, he and Will would go anyway, their goal to save Fiona; and, if need be, leaving Draven’s reckoning for another time….

For Braedan feared that her life would depend on it.

T
he afternoon was fast waning, Fiona realized, shivering as she gazed through the tiny cracks of a shutter in Draven’s bedchamber. The breeze from outside was seeping through to brush her face, easing, a little, the cloying and unbearable scent of roses that hung in the air. The chamber had always seemed soaked in the fragrance, and the memories that the smell brought back made her stomach twist with nausea.

She stood at the casement feeling strangely empty, the despondency that had settled over her since yestereve grown as heavy as a blanket to smother her. Though it was probably sinful to think it, she would have welcomed such an end right now; aye, anything to stop the painful thoughts that kept battering at her soul.

It was almost certain that Braedan was dead.

The awful probability of it couldn’t be denied, for Draven had continued to refuse her questions about
what had happened to him once the guards had dragged him away. It would have been easy enough for Draven to say anything he wanted to appease her—to fabricate a lie if he’d chosen to do so. But he hadn’t. Yet he hadn’t confirmed Braedan’s death, either…and therein was the catch. As satisfying as it might have been for Draven to share that devastating tidbit with her, she knew he was wise enough to realize it would be a mistake to make her feel too desperate. Leaving her in such a state would only serve to mute the pleasures he intended to take with her in his bed that night.

So he had withheld all information, taking the chance that the lack of it would torment her nearly as much as hearing the truth. And though she hadn’t wanted to admit it, even to herself, he had been right. The uncertainty over what had happened to Braedan was driving her mad, and there was nothing she could do about it. Nothing, except to prepare for the inevitable consummation of the day in the only way left open to her.

She was going to kill Draven.

She’d decided as much on the short journey to Chepston, even knowing that by committing his murder she would be adding a mortal sin to those already aligned against her tattered soul. But there was no choice left, unless she was instead to turn the instrument of death on herself. That, too, was a possibility, she’d resolved, if her attempt to kill him failed.

Either way, she would be dead when all was said and done, whether by her own hand, or at the Standard in Cheape, where the city officials would hang her for the crime of murder. It didn’t really matter anymore. She only knew that she’d never allow Draven to touch her in an intimate way again…never permit him to sully
what she’d shared with Braedan, the one man she’d truly loved, and who had loved her so completely in return.

But coming up with a method for killing Draven was proving far more difficult than she’d imagined. She’d been over it in her mind again and again, and nothing seemed possible. He’d taken her dagger back at the Tabard, and once at Chepston, he’d secured her in his chamber, which had been carefully emptied of anything that might be used as a weapon.

She’d not been allowed to leave the room for anything, not even to take a meal in the main hall. The fact that she might have come into contact with Braedan’s younger brother Richard might have had something to do with that, she’d decided. Not that Richard would have known her from any of the other doxies that Draven occasionally brought to Chepston before setting them up in the
stewes
, but it was clear that Draven was taking no chances. No one had ever been able to accuse him of not staying one step ahead of those who might wish him harm; it was how he’d remained alive for so long, even with the prodigious number of enemies he’d earned along the way.

Yet there had to be something he’d overlooked—something he’d forgotten in his arrogant sense of superiority. Looking around the chamber from her position near the window, she searched for the room again. The wide, high-posted bed with its red damask hangings held no hope. It was naught but the instrument of her fear and shame, being the most likely place that he would choose, tonight, to take full possession of her again. Pushing aside that disturbing thought, she continued her study of the room.

The hearth was of stone, but none were loose enough
to pry free, and the wooden logs for burning had all been taken away with her arrival. There was a chair and the desk at which Draven often perused his reeve’s accountings; but both pieces of furniture were too massive for her to consider moving, much less lifting and using as a weapon. There was nothing else, all other implements, including the washbowl and pitcher, having been moved to the smaller locked chamber adjacent to this one.

Panic began to rise in her throat, the despair of knowing that her time was running short spurring her to step away from the window and look from a different position. Her trunk was the only remaining object in the chamber, and she knew well that there were no weapons, or anything that could be made into one, inside of it. Draven had made sure of that, examining the contents of it and rifling through her possessions, removing all but those things he deemed innocuous.

He’d replaced her clothing with a selection of crimson kirtles as before, leaving little else in the trunk but her soaps and her herb box, and that only after he’d looked to be sure she’d not gathered any that had the potential for fatal effects. He’d been as thorough as always, blowing her a mocking kiss just before leaving her alone for a few hours, to contemplate her misery until his return at dusk.

But perhaps he’d not been thorough enough.

Walking quickly to her trunk, she fell to her knees beside it and flipped it open to pull the herb box from beneath the layers of hated gowns. Sitting back on her heels with it in her hands, she examined its size and construction. It was of good, solid wood, banded with steel, in length as great as her arm from shoulder to wrist, in breadth, half that span. Aye, it just might work, she
thought, turning it over to look at its base. She might not have her dagger any longer, but perhaps she could acquire the next best thing: a large and sharp splinter of wood.

She clicked the latch of the herb box and opened it. Taking each small vial and nestling it carefully beneath the crimson gowns, Fiona worked to empty it, planning, once all the contents were removed, to smash the box against the stone hearth and scavenge a splinter of suitable size and sharpness from the remains. It would be risky, that much was certain. She already knew how difficult it was going to be to fortify herself to murder, regardless; adding an improvised weapon to the mix might make it near impossible.

But night was coming soon, and with it, Draven. A wooden dagger would have to do.

A sudden grating sound outside in the hallway made her jump. Startled, she tossed the nearly empty herb box back into her trunk, slammed the lid shut, and scrambled to her feet, just in time to see the massive wooden door of the chamber swing open. Draven walked in. He entered without a word, drawing the door closed behind him and throwing the inside bolt. It clanked home with a finality that resonated in Fiona’s bones, echoing through the lushly appointed chamber like a bell of doom.

“What are you doing here?” she asked uneasily. “It is at least another hour until dark.”

Draven raised his brow at her and walked forward with slow, measured steps, removing his tunic and unlacing his shirt as he came, making her feel like a doe trapped in the lair of a wolf. “I’ve decided to get started a bit early, sweet,” he murmured, the corner of his lips
quirking up. “The thought of enjoying your delectable body once more has had me distracted all afternoon. I did not wish to wait longer.”

“Nay!”

He stiffened at her outburst of denial, fixing his gaze on her, and so she deliberately softened her tone in a bid for more time, adding, “I—I am not ready yet.”

“But I am.”

Icy fear swept over her, raising gooseflesh on her arms. He would not be dissuaded.
But it is too soon!
her mind cried.
There hasn’t been enough time to prepare
. Her entire body tensed, the urge to flee rising up, as powerful as it had been when she’d first been brought to this chamber to face him eleven years ago.

Her breath came shallow, and she backed up a step, then another and another until the stone wall was at her back, desperately trying to think of what to do. Without the improvised weapon she’d planned, her choices were few: She could fight against the inevitable joining he intended with her or attempt to flee him. Fighting him would be useless. He’d shown her, on the night he’d carved that horrible mark into her chest, that he was no longer opposed to tying her down, if need be. If she made clear that she wouldn’t participate in his carnal games willingly, he’d simply lash her to the bed and take his pleasure with her that way.

And as for fleeing…

That wasn’t likely unless she could disable him, somehow. It was possible, she supposed. She, as well as any, knew how sensitive men were in certain areas of their anatomy. And though she’d never herself committed such an act, she’d heard the discussions of other women of the
stewes
who had been forced to take action against
abusive men with a well-placed kick to the spot. Somehow, she imagined that it would be wonderfully satisfying to drive her knee into that part of Draven. He’d be left crouched over and gasping, at least for a few moments, which would give her time to lift the bolt and escape the chamber. Where she would go after that would be a problem she’d have to face then, if she was able to get that far.

Aye, he wouldn’t suspect such an act of rebellion from her.

But it meant that she had to let him get close enough—and comfortable enough—so that she could do it.

“You haven’t begun to disrobe yet, Giselle,” Draven said in a low tone, still looking only at her and coming ever closer to where she was pressed against the wall. “I trust you have not forgotten the way of it between us.”

“Nay, Draven,” she whispered hoarsely, never taking her eyes from him, “I haven’t forgotten.”

“Good. Turn around, then.”

Silently, she did as she was bid, facing the wall, though she closed her eyes, fortifying herself to remain still through just a few more of the steps she knew he’d always favored in his seductions of her.

For one long, breathless moment nothing happened, not even a movement of air, the painfully taut seconds stringing on and on…until he finally touched her. She shivered when his hands slipped beneath the silky mass of her hair, moving it to one side to expose the delicate lacings at the back of her crimson gown. He began to untie them, then, his long and elegant fingers moving slowly in their work, and she couldn’t suppress a little shudder, knowing that he intended to take his time with her.

Soon her kirtle loosened under his efforts, gaping
enough that she could feel the brush of cooler air on her skin. As always before in her years as his possession, he’d forbidden her the wearing of a chemise beneath her gown, preferring, as he’d said, the softness of her skin brushing directly against the silk of her clothing. It was an almost-forgotten sensation, this feeling of near nakedness, but all the more unwelcome in that she was being made to endure it once again with Draven.

He eased the unlaced edges of her gown farther apart, forcing her to clutch the falling bodice of her kirtle to her breasts or risk being exposed even more to his gaze. Gritting her teeth, she squeezed her eyes shut more tightly to keep from crying out.
Just a little more
, she repeated to herself over and over. He ran his fingertips lightly up the length of her spine, following that action with the press of gentle kisses along the sensitive skin at the back of her neck. Just a little more and he would turn her to face him again—and then she could make her move on him.

She held herself rigid under his sensual assault, focusing on thoughts of Braedan to keep her strong. It was only because of him that she could do this at all, she realized, her eyes stinging with bittersweet tears. He had ended Draven’s power over her forever, and she would never need fear succumbing to his control over her again.

Calm filled her, suddenly, easing the frantic thoughts that had been thrashing through her mind. Aye, she could do this. She was stronger than she’d ever been before, thanks to Braedan’s love. She only needed to wait until the moment was right, then she would strike.

“Ah, Giselle, you’re as delicious as I remembered,” Draven murmured, still pressed against her body from
behind, his lips playing with exquisite skill across the shell of her ear before dipping to suckle on the lobe. “Succulent. I shall enjoy tasting your—”

“My lord Draven—pardon, my lord, but you must come quickly!”

The shout was accompanied by a fervent pounding on the door that made Draven jerk away from her, cursing. She turned, adjusting her gown to keep herself covered as she watched him stalk to the portal, lift the bolt, and yank the door open.

A terse conversation followed, but it took place in the hall; from where she was standing, she couldn’t hear its content. Whatever it was, it was serious, she decided, for Draven soon leaned back into the room, his expression as black as the one he’d worn after Braedan bested him during the roadside ambush, muttering that he would return shortly, after he’d resolved a problem that was brewing in the courtyard. Then he left, pulling the door shut behind him; she heard the bar dropped into place from the outside, sealing her in the chamber again.

Quickly reaching back and grasping her laces, Fiona did the best she could at tightening them again, hoping that they weren’t so crooked that she’d be left indecent. Then she rushed to the only window in the chamber that looked over a portion of Chepston’s walled-in courtyard. Pushing open the wooden shutter, she peered out, trying to see. Faintly, she heard a commotion going on somewhere beyond the thick stone walls of the crenellated tower that blocked most of her view; the noise of men’s shouts and a few clanging sounds rose up. Had some of Draven’s men come to blows with each other, then? It was impossible to tell without seeing anything.
But whether or not it was a scuffle between some of his own soldiers or an attack from the outside, Fiona knew it presented her an opportunity. Draven and the men who had been guarding her would be distracted in quelling the insurgence—and that meant she might find a way to escape, if she could see herself clear of this chamber.