Destined for a King (7 page)

“Rand.” Again, the hesitation. “My lord.”

“In the future you will remember to treat your lady with respect.” There was no mistaking which lady he referred to.

Rand eyed Calista. “Your pardon, my lady.”

Torch nodded. “As you were.”

He watched Rand descend the stairs before tackling the next flight. He held fast to the railing as if it were a weapon. Proud, oh yes. Too proud to beg a woman for help.

But however long it took, she would stand beside him. Gods help her if he stumbled, though. His weight would be too much for her to stop him from falling. She shook her head to chase away the image of him lying crumpled at the foot of the stairs, broken. She had to make certain he arrived at the top safely. For her father.

“I thank you for allowing my mother a small kindness,” she said. “Although it occurs to me that if you can walk as far as the bailey and take up arms, you might let my father go free.”

Once more, he came to a halt, but this time, she suspected, his stopping had less to do with fatigue. “Not yet.”

“Why?”

He stiffened.

Yes, and now she'd put her foot in things quite neatly. She straightened her spine. “Your conditions for my father's freedom have been met. You're healed.”

He turned to face her, his expression grim. She felt as if she were back in the bailey watching him lift his sword against Kestrel. Only this time, she was the one facing the blade. Like Kestrel, she'd overstepped. Torch held all the power, and she'd best remember that.

“It is as I told Rand.” He spoke to her just as quietly but every syllable rang with authority. A shivery tingle passed down the back of her neck. “I am in command here. Belwin will be released on my word and no other's.”

Infuriating man. Calista's stride lengthened as she circled the interior of the castle walls, ever aware of the guards above. Torch's men. At an order, they'd shoot her, and she'd best remember that.

He wouldn't do it.

No, not when he insisted on marrying her instead. He'd come to claim her, along with this keep, and claim her he would. His actions today left her with no doubt on that point.

He was a man who expected and received unquestioning obedience from his men. Surely he'd require as much from his wife.
But Magnus would hardly be any different.

Bloody, stubborn, thickheaded arse…

But handsome nonetheless. Powerful. Enticing. Intriguing.

She slammed into a barrel, sending the air rushing from her lungs. Staggering back, she hugged her belly.

A red-faced farmwife clad in brown cottar-spun opened her mouth, no doubt to berate Calista's clumsiness, but her expression changed in an instant when she saw whom she was addressing. “Take care, m'lady.”

A glance about revealed several others with laden carts in varied stages of off-loading. Casks of ale and wine, barrels of grain, cattle and pigs for the slaughter. Provisions to feed Torch's men.

Or to withstand a siege.

With a nod, Calista backed away from the farmwife. She ought to go check on her charge. If she cared at all about her father's welfare, she would. At least, she'd extracted a promise from Torch that he'd rest himself. Yes, but would he?

Not bloody likely.

And she'd made so many turns of the yard already, she'd lost count. With a sigh, she headed for the great hall. As she ascended the stairs to her bedchamber, guilt nibbled at the corners of her conscience, an insidious little mouse at a wheel of cheese. What if his fever had returned? Worse, what if he had fallen and cracked his head on the windowsill? She pushed aside a vision of him lying in a pool of blood. If he'd been foolish enough to rise again after his exertions earlier today, he deserved whatever fate dealt him.

In fact, if he wasn't lying peacefully in bed like an obedient boy, she'd be tempted to crack his head for him. He may require her to speed his healing, but he could at least help matters along by cooperating with her orders.

As if a man such as he would take orders from anyone, let alone a woman.

She yanked the door to her chamber open and froze on the threshold.

In spite of his earlier exertions, he stood in the middle of the floor, his sword raised, the other arm extended to balance. The blade whooshed through the air as he brought it down in a lethal arc. Jaw set, he swung the weapon in a series of graceful movements. Left, right. Up, down. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead.

“What in the name of all the hells do you think you're about?” She marched into the room, narrowly avoiding the weapon.

In the nick of time, he pulled himself to a halt. “What do you mean stepping in front of a blade like that?”

She ignored the warning note in his voice. “It's no more than you did down in the yard.”

“Those were practice weapons. I could have sliced your head off.”

She stared at the sword, the same one he'd used when he'd taken the castle. Its edges glinted red, some cunning work of the smith that, under sunlight, would give the impression of flames. An ancient art, possibly—one long forgotten in these later days. But how did one such as he, with no parentage to speak of, one who'd plundered every last bit of gear he owned, come by such a costly weapon? Not just costly. That blade would have held pride of place in a king's horde.

She shook the thought aside and willed her heart into submission. “You shouldn't even be out of bed,” she insisted. “I'm beginning to think Kestrel was mistaken when he called you daft. You're worse than daft.”

“I've been laid up in bed long enough to drive any man insane with boredom.” He spit the words out between clenched teeth. Anger? Or was he trying to mask the shaking that preceded another collapse?

“You will not heal if you do not allow yourself the time.”

“That is my problem. I have no time.” He loomed closer, his broad shoulders seeming to span from wall to wall. “There's no telling when Magnus will be upon us. I need to be ready to face him when he comes. I cannot be laid up in this chamber like some craven dotard. My men follow me. I need to lead them.”

“And if you're not healed properly, he will slay you just as certainly. Is that what you want?” The gods only knew why she was defending him. If she were a loyal subject, she'd pray for his death. She ought to encourage him along this current path. Only they still held her father.

“No, damn it. I want to win.” He might have shouted for all the intensity behind those words. Only once he'd finished speaking did she realize he'd made that declaration quietly.

“What gain is there for you here?”

“I'd think that clear. Lands, a place of strength to hold under my own name.” His glance flicked to her lips. “Some semblance of permanence.”

She tore her gaze away at all he'd left unsaid. He wanted her, and an heir as well, but some feeling deep in her belly told her he was after even more than that. She knew of no way to divine the future the way he claimed to, but that gnawing inside her was beginning to burn just as hot as his Scrying Stone.

At last she held out her hand. “Give me the sword.”

A roguish smile spread over his features. “Gladly, my lady, but I thought one such as you might prefer to wait until our wedding night to take my sword in hand.”

She gasped. “You know quite well what I meant. You are to put up all weapons until I give you leave, sir.”

Like a candle being doused, his smile disappeared. “I'd have thought you'd learn by now. I do not take orders. I give them.”

She reached for his sword hand, curled her fingers over his, but they held firm about the hilt. “In my chamber, I give the orders.” Daring of her, after his displays earlier, but she must assert herself if she wanted to get anywhere with him. “If you wish to heal, you would be wise to obey.”

“And what would you have me do to pass the time until that glorious day you decide to release me from this prison?” His face hovered a mere handbreadth from hers, his breath wafting warm over her cheeks. It carried the scent of mint, and perforce she recalled his words of the other day.

Give me some mint to chew and a twig to clean my teeth, and I'll prove you wrong on all counts.

He'd been chewing mint, and he most definitely had something to prove. The thought settled deep in her midsection and generated as much warmth as the midday sun. She should back away now, before his lips descended, before he could construe any of her actions as encouragement. As confident as he was, the last thing he needed was for her to fall at his feet.

And yet, her own feet seemed rooted to the spot.

He raised his free hand, and set it to her jaw. The rough calluses on his fingertips tickled her skin. “I can think of any number of ways to pass the time that don't involve fighting.”

She reached up and covered his hand with her palm, whether to peel it away or for the excuse to touch him, she didn't know. But she didn't need an excuse to touch him. She'd done little else since he'd arrived, and in far more intimate spots than the back of his hands.

He leaned in and pressed his lips to hers. Softly he caressed her, the gentleness surprising in a man rumored to take whatever he wanted and to the Faceless One with the consequences. And that one simple movement communicated volumes to her. He wanted her, yes, but he wanted her willing, and he'd wait for her consent.

That thought alone was enough to uproot her, but instead of away, she stepped closer, stepped into his embrace, and twined her arms about his neck. His blade clattered to the floor, and he framed her face with his hands, his fingers spearing into her hair.

The second time he touched his mouth to hers, he delivered the sort of blow she'd expected with his first kiss, demanding her surrender as he'd demanded her father yield the keep. His lips firm on hers, he traced her lower lip with his tongue.

Unsure, she backed away, but he followed, repeating the gesture. “Open for me, sweetling. Let me teach you.”

Teach. And what all might he teach her beyond kisses? Delicious things, if the feelings this simple touch aroused in her were any indication.

She raised her chin, and her lips parted. He angled his head and deepened the contact, while his hands wandered over her shoulders, bringing her into the full circle of his embrace. Over the past few days, her fingertips had grown familiar with the hard planes of his body, the grooves of his skin that delineated each muscle. But this way, his chest to her breasts, their hips pressed together, their thighs aligned, this full contact ignited a sudden spark in her belly. In the next instant, it was more than a mere spark. A fire deep inside her roared to life, demanded release, demanded she respond to him as much as anything he asked of her.

A few kisses, an embrace, and she was lost. Lost not just in his body but his clean taste. Mint, yes, but something frank and earthy lay beneath. His scent enveloped her, the freshness of leather, combined with the coldness of metal, both the hard and the soft.

His hands wandered down her spine, as he pressed eager kisses to her lower lip, her chin, the end of her nose. He dipped below her waist, and his palms molded themselves to the contours of her backside, bringing their lower bodies into fuller contact. Something hard and thick and long insistently probed at her belly, and she moaned.

By all the gods, was that his shaft? She couldn't avoid seeing it while she was caring for him. At rest it hadn't seemed so intimidating. But now…Curiosity and terror mingled with desire, and she clenched her fists into the leather of his jerkin, to stop herself from testing its length and girth with her hands.

He pulled away, and looked down at her, his breath heavy. “Aren't you a surprising little minx?”

She ought to take such a comment for an insult, but something in his tone brought her up short. The rough notes of desire fueled that rumble, certainly, but a strain of reverence entwined with it, and that made her gasp and her knees crumble just as surely as his embrace had.

“What is happening to me?” The question had leapt to her mind on multiple occasions since Torch had captured Blackbriar, but now she gave it voice. Whenever she was in his presence, she felt as if a separate entity was pushing her in his direction. A blush rushed to heat her cheeks.

“It seems to me you're awakening. Your body, not your mind.” He brushed a strand of hair back from her forehead. “Have you never kissed before?”

A few suitors had tried, but she'd rebuffed their fumbling attempts. She'd bitten the last man who'd tried to thrust his tongue in her mouth…however, Torch didn't repel her. On the contrary, he tempted her.
Awakened
was just the word for it. He'd awakened a hunger inside her that craved more and more and more. And only he could satisfy it.

“Not like this.” Her voice sounded unfamiliar in her ears, lower and husky and rough.

“Perhaps we should try again.”

He did not wait for her assent this time. Like a jouster in the lists, he charged in, his kiss hard and demanding and devouring. She reached up and ran her fingers along his cheek. The stubble of his beard rasped beneath her fingertips with every movement of his jaw.

“Such a lovely temptation,” he whispered between kisses. “But I knew you would be.”

He knew. She recalled the sudden blaze of heat of the Stone between their hands. He'd seen her somehow. For him this marriage was a foregone conclusion. All that was wanting was the ceremony itself. And where was her choice in all of this? Did she have one? Was her body's raging response to him even real, or somehow ordained by some outside force?

Magnus was no more your choice,
echoed a persistent voice in her head.

No, her father had negotiated that betrothal. Magnus wanted a young bride capable of giving him sons, and her father wanted a better position among the king's men. All along, she'd been nothing but a pawn.

With Torch, you still have a choice.
A choice, yes, to accept him or not, but if she did not choose him, she was left with Magnus. And gods, how Torch could convince. But she didn't have to make the decision yet.

She set her hands on his chest and pushed away, ducking her head from the continued questing of his mouth.

“What is it?” His embrace loosened, but he didn't release her. His hands clasped easily at her waist. His fingers bumped along the crisscross of lacing on each side of her bodice. “You were going all lovely and soft just now.”

“I shouldn't do this.”

That roguish grin of his returned. “Of course you should.” In harmony with his expression, his tone was light and playful. “You can't convince me you weren't enjoying yourself. Not with that becoming flush on your cheeks. I'd wager you're the color of your family's roses.”

By all the gods, this impish side of him was impossible to resist. It demanded a response just as surely as his kisses did. It coaxed her to play along with him, to return jibe for jibe. Only this time he wasn't needling her. He was paying her a compliment in his way. “Yes, but—”

“Come, now. Try again. This lesson isn't finished.” He leaned in, but rather than press his lips to her again, he dipped his head farther, and his teeth tugged at her earlobe. His fingers skimmed her sides, once again bouncing along the laces of her gown.

She could feel him fiddling at her waist, the way his teeth and tongue worried at her neck. Tempting, those laces, tempting him to undo them, the way he was tempting her to let him. And when he nipped and licked and caressed with his mouth, all she wanted to do was close her eyes and permit him every last liberty. And revel in every sensation he aroused, every moan and sigh he elicited.