Heather Graham (43 page)

More men were hurrying down the stairs now. Three of them this time.

And there was activity by the door. Geoffrey was busily engaged with a tall, redheaded combatant while a dark-haired man sought to take him from behind. “Geoffrey!” Pierce shouted the warning. His friend turned just in time to slice the second man in the side, then smash the hilt of his sword down on the other man’s head.

Then Pierce could watch no longer, for he was thrusting and parrying against another man at the foot of the stairs, a very Gaelic-looking fellow with dark, curling hair and a fine swirling mustache. He dispatched him with the flat on his blade. The two others were rushing down the stairway. He darted and parried, and sent one man flying over the wooden banister.

Then he saw Jerome.

He had slipped out of the room, and was attempting to rush down the hallway, and escape by some other route.

One remaining man still stood between them, his sword drawn and at the ready, but his eyes wary. He was young, a platinum-haired man with strange dark eyes. There was a pulse ticking furiously at his throat. He was afraid, Pierce thought swiftly, realizing even as he did that Jerome was getting away. He looked back to the pale-haired man and let out a roar while raising his sword.

To his great relief, the fellow simply fell back.

And he raced for Jerome.

He did so with such vengeance that he reached him even as he prepared to dash through a door at the end of the hallway. He spun Jerome around, slamming him against the wall.

He was ready to fight. By God, he was ready to fight.

But Jerome held his sword limply in his hand, staring at Pierce with his strange blue eyes. A very curious smile touched his lips. Then he spoke.

“Kill me! Kill me and be quick. Then go to your wife. Perhaps you can reach her in time …”

He stared at the man, incredulous.

“If you have harmed her, you will not die quickly!” he promised. Then, frenzied, he turned away. The tavern was in an uproar. Geoffrey was close behind him.

Jerome wasn’t going to escape. Geoffrey would see to it that he did not.

Pierce turned and raced for the door Jerome had come from. He burst through it.

And he saw her. Rose. Slumped upon the floor. She was wearing an emerald green dress. The skirt of it billowed luxuriously around her, too fine for these surroundings. Her hair was loose, a cascade of fire around her shoulders, covering her face.

“Rose!” He cried her name like a lost creature, his anguish rising in his voice. He fell to his knees, his heart thundering. Prayers flowed through his mind, his heart, his soul. “God, no!” he screamed. He lifted her into his arms. Her face was ashen. Beautiful, as clear and pure as porcelain, her dark lashes sweeping her cheeks. Her lips, even, were ashen. “Rose!” he screamed again, and the pain wracked him. He touched her cheek, he kissed her lips, he swore against God. He saw the faint purple marks on her neck.

And his rage burst within him.

“Rose!”

Miraculously, she heard the cry. It entered into the darkness that had swept around her. That held her. The darkness so very like death …

Someone was calling her. Calling her back to life. She had been tumbling into the black void. She had been ready to accept the darkness. But she could hear his voice, calling to her. She could feel warmth then. Feel his arms around her.

He was carrying her. Laying her out on the bed. She tried to breathe. Tried to speak. Tried to open her eyes.

“Rose!” He cried her name again, drawing her to him. He kissed her forehead and her cheeks and her fingers.

She tried to say something, to assure him, but she couldn’t. She had to concentrate, she had to summon her strength …

But he was suddenly gone. Swearing against God and heaven. Vowing to kill Jerome. Slice him from throat to groin.

Pierce burst out to the hallway, his fingers clasping the banister as he stared down into the crowded tavern below. Jerome was down there now, at the end of Geoffrey’s sword point. Pierce leapt over the banister, landing deftly just feet before him. “God damn you! God damn you to eternal hell!” he thundered, his voice shaking.

Geoffrey fell back, fear dancing through his eyes as he saw the madman before him. Pierce raised his sword. Armed or unarmed, he didn’t give a damn. He had to kill him. Had to …

But when it came time to lower his blade, something snapped.

He dropped his sword. Instead he sent a blow flying against Jerome’s chin, and the man staggered to the floor. He looked up at Pierce, smiling over his bloodied lip. “It’s too late, eh, mi-great-lord?”

Pierce reached for him, certain that he had the strength and blind fury to rip him right in half.

But then …

He heard his name.

“Pierce!”

He froze, unable to believe that he was hearing the voice. He turned, and there she was. Rose. Standing. Pale as snow, but alive, her hair a fire that tumbled all around her. Her emerald skirt fell beautifully about her. She was looking down at him so gravely.

God in heaven, she was alive!

“Pierce, give him to the king’s justice!” she said softly. Her hand was at her throat. It must have pained her greatly. The bruises on it would soon turn black and blue.

He turned back and picked up Jerome. Literally picked him up, snatching him right from the floor. His body was rigid with tension.

“Pierce!”

Her voice, so soft …

He had killed men in battle, many times. But in all of his life, he had never committed murder. No matter how he longed to tear this man limb from limb, it would somehow be wrong.

“Pierce!” Her voice was soft, beautiful, entreating.

“Pierce, let him stand trial, I beg of you! You have now avenged Anne! She would not wish you to sacrifice your own soul. Let him have the king’s justice, Pierce. For you, for me, for Woody!”

His lip curled slightly. He still held the terrified, red-faced Jerome in his death grip.

Rose didn’t understand. Time had healed him somewhat. He didn’t feel the desperate desire to draw blood for what Jerome had done to Anne, but for what he had nearly done to Rose. Perhaps it was a fine point. Perhaps explained by the very nearness of Rose’s vivid beauty and unfaltering spirit. Perhaps it was the babe they shared.

Perhaps it was the future that lay before them, and the depths of their love.

His grip tightened. He could feel the cords in his neck standing out. Blood pounded in his head. It would be so easy to wind his fingers around this man’s neck, just as Jerome had wound his own around Rose’s throat.

Or he could draw his knife! After all that the man had done, he deserved it! If he could just slide that knife into his flesh and rip and tear and work away the anger and the hatred …

Jerome was looking at him. Jerome, who knew what his fate would be in a court of law. “Do it!” he commanded Pierce. He was nearly smiling once again, taunting Pierce to kill him. “Do it, and be done with it!”

“Pierce!”

Rose again.

Pleading …

Not for Jerome. But for them. For the son. For the future they might now share.

Slowly, slowly, his fingers unclenched. Jerome’s trembling body fell to the ground. Pierce turned from him and bounded back up the stairs, to Rose.

Men rushed in to take Jerome. The king’s men, Pierce realized. They’d followed him. Bless Charles.

He had reached Rose.

Pierce lifted her chin very tenderly. His thumb massaged her cheek. He kissed her lips. Softly. So softly. He touched her throat. “My God,” he said, his voice breaking.

She caught his hand and held it, smiling. “It’s all right! It’s really all right.”

It wasn’t all right. It wouldn’t be for a while. But she was alive.

And she would heal.

They would heal.

“Let’s go home,” he said.

He lifted her up, and into his arms. He walked outside, into the clear air of the aftermath of the storm. A cool breeze lay on the air now. Soft, gentle.

“You can see the stars,” she murmured.

“And the moon,” he agreed.

“All of the world. It’s clear and beautiful now.”

Someone came up behind him, clearing his throat. Pierce turned. It was one of the king’s guards. “They’ve taken him to Dover Castle, Lord DeForte.”

“Thank you,” Pierce said. He stared at Rose again. The king’s man seemed to melt away.

Pierce lifted her atop Beowulf and leapt up behind her. Geoffrey, and a number of the king’s men, followed behind them, keeping a discreet distance. But Pierce was certain that the king had commanded that the duke and duchess be given an escort home.

And there was nothing that he wanted more than to go home that night.

So they rode, as safe as they might ever hope to be.

Therefore, he could throw caution to the winds and give all his attention to his wife, held so tightly in his arms before him.

“Did I ever tell you how much I love you?” he asked her.

“Just how much?” she mused. “No,” she informed him, smiling.

“Never?”

“Never.” She reached up and touched a dark strand of his hair. “A son and over a year of marriage. And you’ve yet to really go on and on about love.”

“Well, I might have been too busy groveling,” he told her, a smile curling his own lips.

“Pierce!”

He laughed, but his arms tightened around her. “I love you so much that I would welcome death rather than live without you. I do, my wild, rare little colonial flower, love you with all of my heart and soul,” he vowed, staring down into the soft, exquisite beauty of her eyes.

She touched his cheek, and trembled. “My dear great Lord DeForte! You are, indeed, my very life!”

His eyes were grave for a moment. “So brave, my Rose! You nearly died for me tonight.”

Her breath quickened and she caught it, staring up at him. She stroked his cheek, marveling at the hard, handsome planes, feeling the tick of life in his pulse beneath her fingers. “I nearly lost you once. I was not so brave. I simply could not lose you again. “

Pierce reined in sharply on Beowulf. There, beneath the trees on the trail in the starlit night, he kissed her. Long and luxuriously and tenderly, he kissed her. The taste was infinitely sweet.

Behind them, the king’s men slowed to a stop. Pierce drew his lips from hers at last, his eyes sparkling in the darkness. “Perhaps we had best go home for this!” he murmured. Then he frowned. “If you’re feeling well enough to—”

“My love, I am feeling well enough to be cherished, I promise you!”

“Ah, lady, I am eager to cherish you! I so nearly lost you tonight! I was almost insane with it, Rose; I could have torn him limb from limb! But—”

“But I am alive!” she whispered. “You brought me back to life, you know! I heard you call my name.”

He smiled and kissed the tips of her fingers. “So that is it, you see. We have to cherish all that we have, and look now to the future.”

“To the future,” she whispered fervently in return.

“So shall we hurry, milady?” he murmured.

She glanced down the path, to the men following them, and smiled. “Oh, indeed! I think so!”

And so they rode home. And when they came to Castle DeForte, the doors burst open. Ashcroft came rushing out, his features drawn, reaching for his daughter. “She’s well, Sir Woodbine!” Pierce said. But he seemed to understand a father’s love, and he handed Rose down to Ashcroft. Rose hugged her father fiercely, then smiled. “All is well, Father. All is well.”

“Milady!” Mary Kate came rushing out next, with Garth on her heels. Then it seemed that the whole household was welcoming them back.

A droll voice suddenly rang from the doorway. “My dear Lord and Lady DeForte! I do not mind standing guard over my godchild, as any good godparent might do! But young Pierce is wailing away and does not appear at all pleased with my royal face. I am the king, mind you, not a nursemaid!”

Rose and Pierce looked quickly to each other, and then to the indignant king. Then once again their gazes met. They both burst into laughter and Rose turned and rushed quickly to the king. She curtsied before him. “Your Majesty! Do forgive us! We’ve all returned, and we certainly shall not expect you to see to the changing of our young DeForte’s pants!”

“Daughter!” Ashcroft cried out, horrified.

“In to your son, madame!” the king commanded her, smiling.

Then he saw Pierce, and extended his hand, a brow raised.

“Pierce, my good friend!”

Pierce clasped his hand. “Jerome was taken to Dover Castle to be held there, Your Majesty, until such time as he can come to trial.”

The king nodded, lowering his head. Then he raised it, his dark eyes sparkling with Stuart care and charm. “I am glad, my friend. Deeply glad. Let’s have some wine, shall we?” He clapped Garth on the shoulders. “Some of the finest from my Lord DeForte’s cellars, eh, good man?”

Garth agreed. They all filed into the house. Before the door had closed, Pierce hurried back out. The king’s men had followed him home. They were hovering back by the gates once again. There were Sirs Neville and Paine, Lords Denoncourt and Mobley and a few men he did not recognize.

“Wine, my friends?” he asked.

They all looked somewhat abashed. But then Neville threw up his arms. “Aye, it sounds good all around, fine wine after long hours! You’ll have us all asleep in your hall, DeForte.”

“As long as you stay below with the fire!” he said, and the men dismounted from their horses to come in.

It was really morning, not night at all. But no occasion had ever seemed more festive. His best wine flowed freely.

Garth and Mary Kate and Geoffrey and much of the household joined the festivities.

Of course, the way that they whispered, it was becoming more and more obvious that Mary Kate and Garth were growing enamored of each other. Between the two of them, though, they managed the household quite beautifully, and both Rose and Pierce were delighted.

As dawn broke, the king determined to leave, accompanied by several of his men. Pierce shook his hand again; Rose kissed it in her gratitude, holding it fiercely. Charles, ever the courtly king, disentangled himself. “Nay, lady! Let me kiss your hand!” And he did so, then departed.