DeliveredIntoHisHands (3 page)

“You will give her hand to this barbarian?”
Alyx queried.

“What choice do we have?” the baron asked.
“We cannot hold the Crimson Lord captive and interrogate him as we planned with
General Richar. The Modarthan forces would invade as soon as the king’s spies
learned the warrior is taken.”

“That will eventually happen anyway,” his
wife warned. “War is inevitable. Is that not what our people have been training
for?”

“We’ve been training to throw off the yoke
of the goddess-be-damned Modarthan rule,” Alyx said. “What if he won’t accept
Tonia to wife?”

“He will,” Arbra grumbled.

“How do you know?”

“Because he says she’s pretty and when I
told him he would have his hands full with her he said it would be worth it,”
Arbra replied.

Alyx groaned, squeezing his eyes closed for
he knew the woman he had hoped to have as his was now out of his reach.

“He is honor-bound to accept her. She saved
his life,” Lady Maripose said. “To a Panthera, that is like catnip.”

* * * * *

Striding along the corridor that led to the
armory, Alyx was angrier than he had ever been in his twenty-six years. Not
even his older brother’s death at the hands of the Modarthan militia had caused
as much rage in the Volakisian lord. He ached to put his fist through a wall
but all around him was solid stone and the petrified wood columns of Castle
Blackthorn. By the time he reached the armory, he had worked himself into such
a state his vision was tinged with red.

Moonlight flitted through the arrow loops
and a light breeze wafted through. The air was turning chill for it was almost
October.

The sound of hammers striking iron hurried
his footsteps. He needed to speak to the smithy who had crafted the iron bands
that had been used on the Modarthan. That the bands had not been welded closed
infuriated Alyx. It should have been impossible for anyone to simply pry the
bands apart as Arbra had. His only consolation was in knowing the removal of
the bands had caused the Crimson Lord immense pain.

Entering the smithy’s shop, Alyx motioned
for the burly giant to come to him. Long leather apron slapping against his
legs, the blacksmith hurried over.

“What happened?” Alyx demanded in a low
voice. He cast his gaze about for prying eyes and ill-timed ears. “Why were the
bands not fired to his flesh?”

“We were interrupted before we could finish
the job, Your Grace,” the smithy said. “A patrol passed close by us. We held
our breaths hoping they wouldn’t find him before the Sun rose.” The smithy
bowed his head. “I am deeply aggrieved he did not die as you planned.”

“And because he did not,” Alyx said through
gritted teeth, “he has further caused me trouble.”

“I heard,” the smithy said. He looked up.
“Tell me what I can do to remedy this.”

Alyx started pacing, confident there was no
one to overhear. “We will need to bide our time for now but I’ve a plan to rid
ourselves of him and the Modarthan yoke that is ever tightening around our
necks.”

“Give me leave and I will take his head,”
the smithy said. “I swear my loyalty to you and the cause, Prince—”

“Shush!” Alyx hissed. “Never, never call me
that!”

* * * * *

“An alliance between the house of
Blackthorn and Warwyck,” Lady Maripose told her husband the next morning,
“would be most beneficial.”

They were taking their daily constitution
upon the battlements, looking out over the hundreds of acres upon which Castle
Blackthorn sat. Her arm was laced with his, a parasol in her other hand to
shield her from the harsh sunlight.

“Except for one thing, milady,” the baron
said. “We will soon be at war with Modartha.”

“Straddling both sides of the fence could
be advantageous, don’t you agree?” his wife queried. “We would have a foot in
each camp and no matter the victor, we would be protected.”

“True,” he said, tapping his thumbnail
against his front teeth as was his habit. “And I really don’t have any options
considering Antonia’s attraction to the warrior. Curse that goddess-be-damned
prophecy.”

“The added advantage being the warrior is
also the much loved bastard son of the Modarthan king,” Lady Maripose pointed
out.

“There is that,” the baron agreed with a
grunt.

“It is—as the Serenians say—a win-win
situation,” she stated. “But…”

“But?” her husband countered.

“He will need to take up residence here and
not take our daughter to Modartha. Having him here would serve two purposes. We
would not lose our daughter to that barbaric horde and he would be where we
could watch him.”

“Where Alyxdair can watch him you mean,”
the baron corrected with a smile.

“Have you put him in charge of finding out
who staked the warrior?”

“I did, although he did not seem all that
eager to do so,” her husband replied. “Already he has taken a very strong
dislike to the Modarthan.”

Lady Maripose shrugged. “I feel sorry for
the lad. His hatred for all things Modarthan was bad enough before now. If
Antonia weds the warrior—”

“She will,” the baron said. “Whether it is
to our liking or not.”

“Well, I—for one—am pleased with the match
for the reason I stated before.”

“Then why say ‘if’?” her husband asked.

“Someone tried to murder the warrior. Do
you not think they will try again?”

“Egad, I hope not,” the baron said.
“Leastways not at Castle Blackthorn. Not on my watch. The Modarthan king would
destroy us! He would bring the very stones of the keep down around our ears
should something happen to his son while he is in our care.”

“Then we must see to keeping the warrior
safe,” she said.

“Indeed,” her husband replied.

* * * * *

Waking to a brutal headache with which he
was all too familiar, Garrick slowly opened his eyes. For a moment he was
completely dumbfounded for he had no idea where he was or how he got there.
Above him was the canopy of an ornate bed and beneath him the softest mattress
upon which he’d ever lain. Fanning his palms across the sheet made him sigh for
the fabric was silk and cool to the touch.

He eased himself up in the bed until his
back pressed against the headboard so he could survey the room. The draperies
were closed but a very faint strip of light showed at the top of the drapery
rod. It was daylight beyond and he shuddered. Sunlight was deadly to his kind.
He should be where no light at all showed at this time of day. Should someone
throw open the draperies he would be blinded.

Or worse.

He shuddered again as something pushed at
his aching mind but he couldn’t grasp it. Instead, he shifted his night-honed
eyesight about him.

Nothing in the room was familiar to him.
The opulent surroundings belonged to a rich man—or woman—but he had no idea
who. Putting a shaking hand to his throbbing head, he realized he was naked
beneath the silken sheet.

“Woman,” he said, thinking he had to be in
the bedroom of some woman whose body he’d conquered before the migraine came
calling.

Or he was in a brothel. He had intimate
knowledge of such places but not one such as this if, indeed, that was what it
was. The room was luxurious, tasteful, and he felt completely out of place
there.

Perhaps he was in the bedchamber of a very
influential courtesan. That made more sense but then he wondered what Lord he
might be forced to fight over the woman’s fickle affections.

“Shit,” he muttered.

He flung the sheet back and swung his feet
over the side of the bed. The room cantered away from him for a moment forcing
him to dig his fingers into the edge of the mattress to steady himself. Nausea
bubbled up his throat and he barely had time to grab the wastebasket beside the
nightstand before he puked.

Retching violently, it barely registered
with him that someone had come into the room until he felt a cool hand on his
brow, anchoring his head as he relieved the sour bile.

“Oh my goodness!” he heard. The voice
belonged to a woman—a young woman—and the tone held both wonder and shock.

The hand on his forehead held him while she
put another hand to his back, stroking in a soothing manner as he continued to
heave. Minutes passed and then he sagged against her hold. She stepped closer
until his head was resting against her belly.

“All done?” she asked.

“Aye,” he managed to whisper.

“Then lie back now.”

For a reason he could not understand, he
didn’t want to lie back. He wanted to continue pressing his forehead to her
softness. She smelled of gardenias and though the scent should have made his
stomach roil, it did not. It soothed him in ways that completely perplexed him.

“Go on,” she said sternly. “Lie back.”

This was a bossy little lady’s maid and he
half smiled.

Closing his eyes to the motion, for the
very act of pulling away from her sent horrific stabs of pain from temple to
temple, he allowed her to help him lie down. The coolness of the sheet as she
pulled it over him was soothing.

“I’ll get a cold cloth,” she told him.

He wanted to wedge one eye open to look at
her but it took too much effort. He was hurting so badly he thought the top of
his head would explode. When she came back and laid the washcloth across his
brow, he wanted to throw his arms around her in gratitude.

“Algés,” he whispered.

“Of course,” she said.

He heard the door open and close and the
silence was deafening.

And he desperately missed her presence in
the room with him. By the time she came back—with a man who smelled strongly of
tobacco—he was all but crawling up the walls with anxiety.

“Don’t you ever leave me again,” he asked,
prying one eye open. “Never again.”

“The Lady Antonia cannot stay in your room
with you, milord,” the man said. “That is not permitted.”

“Lady?” he questioned. The man was hovering
over him and the glint of metal told him he held a vac-syringe.

“Turn your head, milord.”

Garrick craved to see her but she was
hidden behind the one he realized was a healer and one who had very little
patience. Instead of allowing him to turn his head in his own time, the healer
simply pushed his face to the side. The hot sting of the algés entering his
vein made Garrick yelp.

“Don’t hurt him,” he heard her say. “He’s
been hurt enough.”

Those words brought back the memory of the sun
with stunning clarity and he remembered the agony of being staked, the gentle eyes
that had saved him, and he knew where he was.

“Castle Blackthorn,” he whispered.

“Aye, that is where you are,” the healer
said. “Now let the drug take effect. Lady Antonia, come with me.”

“No!” he said, struggling to raise his hand
but already the painkiller was wrapping its arms around him. His eyelids closed
though he strove hard to keep them open.

“It is all right, Healer Frye. He is my
Chosen,” the woman he knew was named Antonia said. “I will stay with him until
he falls asleep.”

“Then I too will stay,” the healer said in
an angry tone.

He felt the bed dip and knew she had sat
down beside him. The drug had him now. Movement of any kind was out of the
question. He felt her hand on his brow—easing aside a lock of hair.

“Sleep,” she said.

As he began to tumble into the darkness he
heard the healer mumble something.

“Aye,” she said. “He may be our enemy but
he is my Chosen whether that pleases me or not.”

* * * * *

Antonia could not get the image of the
warrior out of her mind. When she had found him sitting on the edge of the
bed—his naked body twisted to the side as he threw up—her gaze had gone of its
own accord to the juncture of his muscled thighs. What she had seen nestled
there had shaken her. She was not ignorant of male anatomy but she had never
seen a man’s appendage before.

And certainly not up close and personal as
she had the warrior’s.

Her face flamed as she remembered that
long, thick shaft. Though the room was dark, the warrior—because of the Vampire
side of his DNA—was pale. His flesh stood out in the dim light against the
black silk sheets.

As did his shaft.

“Sweet Sibylline,” she said, putting a
trembling hand to her lips.

He was huge, she thought. Surely such a
thing could not fit between her own legs. Could not enter her body without a
great deal of pain or at least much discomfort.

A hard shudder ran through her.

Though her mother had given her The Talk
when she came of age, Antonia had learned more from Cherise, her Serenian
lady’s maid, than from her sedate, embarrassed mother.

“A man’s cock is a delightful thing,
milady,” Cherise told her. “It’ll do things to you that will curl your toes
right out of your slippers! Gain dominion over his cock and you’ve gained
dominion over the man.”

If she hadn’t feared him before she sneaked
into his room, she certainly did now.

* * * * *

“I am Baron Demas Blackthorn,” the
middle-aged gentleman stated. He was a portly man with a shock of thick white
hair that curled around his head like a fleecy cloud. In the light from the
bedside lamp his eyes were bloodshot and hooded. “I hope I have not come too
early of the eve.”

“I’ve been awake for an hour or so,”
Garrick replied.

“I hope you are feeling better,” the baron
said.

“Much, thank you,” Garrick replied. He was
uncomfortable lying naked in bed while the owner of the keep stood at his
bedside. It was a weak position and carried with it a degree of embarrassment
at being almost defenseless save for his fangs and claws.

“My men are out searching for the
miscreants who tried to do you in,” his host said. “Unfortunately they have
covered their tracks all too well.”

“I’ll find them,” Garrick vowed. “Have no
doubt of that.”