Claire Delacroix (143 page)

For the moment.

He tried to feign sleep while he assessed the situation. His breathing must have changed, though, for the blade bit deeper.

“I will kill you, for taking what should be mine,” his assailant muttered in his ear.

Rowan gasped as the knife bit into his flesh. Bronwyn stirred and he tried to warn her, but to no avail. Her eyes flew open, her expression changing to astonishment as she looked from the knife to Rowan’s attacker.

“Matthew! What are you doing?”

She might have intervened, but Matthew stepped back, hauling Rowan with him. The knight stumbled to his feet, hating that there was naught he could do to aid himself.

Let alone his lady. What would Marco’s son do to Bronwyn once Rowan was dead? Rowan did not want to consider the matter.

“I am taking what is my due!” Matthew cried. Rowan
hated that he could not accurately guess the man’s height and strength. He could not even manage a glance over his shoulder with this blade at his throat.

He closed his eyes and guessed by the angle of the blade that Matthew was shorter than himself.

Bronwyn sat up in the bed and Rowan nearly groaned aloud. Her chemise was wrought of linen so sheer that it hid none of her many charms, though she was blissfully unaware of that.

Matthew might not be.

“What is this you say?” she demanded, propping her hands upon her hips. “There is naught here that is yours. Surely your father explained the truth to you?”

“He told me that you had spurned me, that you would wed this one instead.”

Bronwyn shook her head and made to rise, Matthew’s resulting agitation making Rowan nigh choke on the knife. Her eyes widened and she held her ground, much to Rowan’s relief.

“I had no idea the betrothal was of such import to you, Matthew,” she said carefully. “Indeed, we have seen little of each other in recent years.”

Matthew laughed. “Betrothal? I care naught for you—’tis all of our fathers’ holdings that are due to me and me alone.”

Rowan thought of the dagger in his belt, now buried in his discarded garb. He tried to gauge the distance to those clothes without truly casting a glance that way.

He would not put it past Bronwyn to guess the direction of his thoughts and strive to set matters to rights. The woman had a rare determination to affect her own fortunes—but Rowan would not grant her any means to win this disenchanted man’s ire.

The knife bit deep again. “ ’Tis this man who means to
steal all from me. I shall kill him, then you will wed me, then all that wealth will be mine.”

“Nay, Matthew, ’tis not a course of good sense,” Bronwyn protested, and put one foot on the floor.

“Nay!” Matthew screamed suddenly, and the knife moved slightly away.

’Twould be Rowan’s only chance before the last blow was struck.

Bronwyn screamed in the same moment that Rowan dug his elbow into Matthew’s gut. The other man fell back; Rowan pivoted but halted at the sight before his eyes.

Blood ran from Matthew’s left shoulder yet he held his knife before himself, the blade wavering. He was smaller than Rowan, though built solidly. His eyes were wide with fear and he had backed away to face another opponent.

Aye, Matthew faced an unexpected foe, one who had entered the chamber silently, one who had wounded Matthew already, and one Rowan knew was more formidable than any Matthew could have faced before. The older man with blood on his blade was not to be underestimated; truly he seemed to smile in anticipation of his next kill.

’Twas Rowan’s own father.

“Gavin?” he asked, stunned that the mercenary should be here.

“Aye, ’tis me, that is clear enough.” Gavin growled, his gaze unswerving from Matthew.

Rowan shoved a hand through his hair, relieved as Bronwyn’s arms closed around him from behind. She was trembling and he closed his hands over her own. “But why? Why are you here?”

Gavin’s gaze flicked his way. “I have a missive from your foster mother.”

Matthew took advantage of Gavin’s averted attention and
lunged. Rowan cried a warning, but the younger man’s knife slashed at Gavin’s neck. The mercenary roared and turned on Matthew with a vengeance.

Their blades met with a clang, they grappled at such close range, then threw off each other’s weight. They circled warily as Rowan retrieved his chausses, boots, and dagger.

“I have killed a thousand, boy,” Gavin purred, and beckoned to Matthew with one hand. “One more is as naught to me.”

“You have no reason to kill me,” Matthew whispered.

“Every reason,” Gavin corrected. “You alone have tried to kill my son. ’Twould be a novelty to kill for the cause of righteousness.”

Matthew might have surrendered and saved his own hide, but there was a wild light in his eyes. He attacked Gavin suddenly, his blade flashing with vigor. Gavin dove for the younger man. Matthew fought with surprising strength and managed to drive his blade into Gavin. Rowan leapt into the fray but, before he could strike, Gavin bellowed with rage.

He drove his blade deep into Matthew’s belly and jerked it up into the younger man’s chest. Matthew made a little cry, then sagged, his blood pooling on the floor.

Gavin withdrew his blade, wiped it on Matthew’s chemise, then flicked a cool glance toward his fallen opponent. “I had expected better sport of one who began so well.”

He turned then to assess his son, his eyes narrowing as he studied Rowan. Rowan let him look, in no way inclined to make more of the meeting than might otherwise have been. He was all too aware of Bronwyn’s presence behind him and guessed she was mightily curious.

“I thank you for your aid,” he acknowledged when his father said naught.

“You would have had matters resolved in short order.” Gavin grinned. “My son, after all.”

They stared at each other, neither apparently having the words for this meeting, and the older man’s smile gradually faded.

“You look well,” Gavin said finally, his voice gruff.

Rowan folded his arms across his chest. “You are bleeding.”

Gavin wiped at the blood and shrugged. “Better than dead.” He nudged Matthew, as if ensuring the man was truly dead, and nodded approval. He shoved his knife back in his belt and surveyed their surroundings so openly that Rowan cringed.

“What do you want of me?” he asked, not troubling to hide his impatience.

“Must I want something of you?”

“Aye.” Rowan almost laughed. “Otherwise you would not be here.”

Gavin snorted. “ ’Tis a fine welcome for a father who has travelled far in search of his son.”

Rowan had no chance to argue further, for the morning silence was suddenly shattered.

“Niccolo!” a woman screamed from below, “Niccolo, nay!”

“Mother,” Bronwyn whispered.

The three of them fled the chamber as one. There was no use counselling Bronwyn to remain behind, for Rowan knew she would not heed him, not when someone she loved was in fear.

Aye, ’twas one of the traits he most loved about his betrothed. He would not, however, let her take the lead. Rowan seized the lady’s hand and held her fast to his side, pretending he was immune to the plea in her eyes when she glanced to him.

“I am not about to lose you now,” he said grimly, and was relieved that she remained in his shadow.

For now.

They rushed into the hall and Bronwyn gasped in horror. Her mother stood, wide-eyed with terror, her hands twisted behind her back. Her father stood helpless in the middle of the hall, staring at a man who should have been dead.

Baldassare di Vilonte traced patterns against Adhara’s fair flesh with a bloodstained knife.

Bronwyn had not killed a man, after all.

She had little chance to be relieved. Three more strangers immediately stepped out of the shadows, their blades rising to the men’s throats. They divested Gavin and Rowan of their knives, one pulling Bronwyn’s hand behind her back as her mother’s were held. She refused to give him the satisfaction of crying out.

Baldassare glanced across the hall, his gaze alighting on the recent arrivals. “Do join us,” he said smoothly, as if they had any choice. “But remain where I can see you clearly, for I have learned well enough that you are not to be trusted.”

Bronwyn stood tall before the captain’s cold gaze.

“I must assume that my protégé proved himself to be cut of the same cloth as his father.”

Niccolo froze. “What have you done to Marco?”

Baldassare smiled. “He outlived his usefulness after winning me access to your gates. ’Tis his blood upon this blade—you will find his corpse in the gatehouse.”

Bronwyn found her horrified gaze following the movement of that knife. Her mother swallowed.

“And what of these men?” Her father gestured to the other men aiding Baldassare.

Baldassare smiled, nodding to his companions in turn. “One can always find men who are tempted with the prospect of gold. You should have been more careful with your reputation, Niccolo—many in town knew of your wealth, no less coveted it for themselves.”

Bronwyn’s father paled. The three men who aided Baldassare—one dark, one fair, one in between—grinned in anticipation of the spoils.

“Coax the fire to life, Niccolo,” Baldassare invited amiably.

Niccolo shook his head. “I will not watch you hurt her.”

“Then you must do my bidding. I would have a blazing fire upon the hearth.” Baldassare’s voice hardened. “And I would have it now. Surely ’tis not too much hospitality to grant a guest?”

Niccolo’s hands clenched and unclenched, his gaze not straying from the knife. “You will not hurt her.”

“Not if you cease to tempt me.” Baldassare dug the blade deeper and Adhara blanched as she gasped. Niccolo stepped closer, but Baldassare did not ease his grip. Bronwyn could hear her mother’s frightened breathing. “Stoke up the fire, Niccolo, if you want your wife to live.”

Her father looked suddenly elderly, but he lingered only another moment before kneeling at the hearth. Silence reigned until the flames were coaxed to life.

“ ’Tis done,” Niccolo said flatly and stood. “Now release her.”

Baldassare laughed. “I will do no such thing!”

Bronwyn watched her father’s dismay, hating that she could do naught to aid him or her mother.

“Then exchange my life for hers.”

But Baldassare regarded him coldly. “Do you not understand, Niccolo? You cheated my father and left him dead in
a foreign land, taking his share of the profits from that journey for yourself and leaving his reputation shattered.”

“I did no such thing!” Niccolo retorted angrily. “He tried to kill us all, that he might have a greater share! Your father was seized with madness for the gold—you were there! You saw the truth of it! He would have stolen from all of us—’twas your own father who dared too much, who wanted too much!”

“Nay, he wanted only what was rightfully his, but you betrayed him, as men who have shared meals should never do.” Baldassare’s voice was grim. “But that journey made your name, Niccolo the Falcon, it made your fortune and your reputation. All you built should have been my father’s, and thence should have been mine—’tis as if you stole it from me.”

Niccolo did not correct him this time, though Bronwyn knew the charge was unfairly made. A trickle of blood broke from Adhara’s flesh and she bit back a whimper. Bronwyn watched her father blanch and hold his ground with difficulty.

A dull flush of anger rose over Baldassare’s face. “It took me long to find my way back to Venice, only to find that you had destroyed my family name with malicious lies. I vowed then to have my due of you, but you disappeared, as if you knew yourself to be hunted.”

“I wanted only to find peace,” Niccolo asserted quietly.

“By living on stolen spoils for which there could be no accounting?”

“Your father could not have imagined that all the profit would fall to him!” Niccolo protested.

“It should have! He deserved it. I deserved it!” Baldassare’s voice rose. “But I found you in the end, I proved to be the better hunter than you were prey. And now, Niccolo, you will destroy all that should have been mine.”

“Release my wife and all I have will be yours.”

“ ’Tis not enough. Not now.”

Bronwyn’s father frowned. “What nonsense is this?”

“I have decided ’twould be sweeter for you to be the one to destroy all you love.” Baldassare nodded toward the hearth. “Take a torch and light it, Niccolo. The first thing you will destroy is your own hall.”

Niccolo frowned. “Of what sense is that?”

“Shall I kill your wife while you linger, then?” Baldassare’s gaze turned cold and Adhara cried out as the knife jabbed into her. Her blood mingled with the remnant of Marco’s blood on the blade.

“Nay!” Niccolo cried.

“Nay!” Bronwyn cried.

“Do it, Niccolo,” Adhara whispered fervently. “I beg of you.”

Bronwyn watched her father’s shoulders stoop. He took a glance around the hall, then gazed at his wife for a long moment. Bronwyn feared neither of them would survive this day, and guessed that they both came to the same conclusion.

Then Niccolo bent to touch the torch to the flame. He straightened and started to turn.