Lord of Vengeance (12 page)

“Baron d'Bussy,” the tavern keeper confirmed. “Said ye looked to 'im like a man with a death wish and 'e wagered against ye. Twelve deniers 'e lost to me. Wasn't any too 'appy to forfeit his coin, I can tell ye that--”

But Gunnar wasn't listening. He shoved the tankard away and ran to the door, throwing it open and dashing out into a driving, midnight rain. He was too late. The hoof beats of d'Bussy's riding party were distant, scarcely discernible amid the storm.

His enemy had been within arm's reach and now he was gone. An opportunity missed, perhaps never to be realized again.

In that moment, the rage-filled animal Gunnar had been was swiftly brought to heel. Now it was a distant memory, a beast kept under tight rein, for to be enraged meant to feel, and to feel meant to be weakened, to be vulnerable to error.

And so Gunnar no longer felt anything. Emotional numbness was his master now.

At least that was what he repeated in his head, over and over again, as his father's signet ring bit into the flesh of his clenched fist.

Merrick was staring at him when Gunnar finally looked up and met his gaze. His tone had turned reflective, sympathetic. “Losing your family, your home...it could not have been easy for you, particularly at so young an age.”

It hadn't been. But Gunnar didn't want to think about that now. He didn't need a reminder of the weak, sniveling boy whom d'Bussy had met at Wynbrooke that day, or the fool who had let him slip through his fingers not once, but twice: in the tavern and then again at the tourney. “The past is...”

He was about to say the past was over, but in truth, it was far from over. It wouldn't be until d'Bussy's life was over. “The past is the past,” he amended briskly, then downed his cup of wine in one gulp and pushed away from the table, ready to take his leave.

Merrick sent him off with a large wedge of cheese and a loaf of bread for his journey come the morn. Seeing his father's ring had suddenly sobered Gunnar, so he accepted the old man's offer of a skin of wine without a moment's deliberation. It wasn't until he stood up that he realized that despite his mental lucidity, his body had had its fill of drink.

On uncustomarily wobbly legs, Gunnar bade his thanks and farewell to Merrick then untethered his destrier. With a bundle of kindling wrapped in his mantle and strapped to his mount, his cache of viands tucked under his arm and the ring safely hidden in a pouch fastened to his baldric, he rode back up the hill to the keep and his waiting captive.

Cedric was awake and came to his feet without a sound when Gunnar reached the top of the keep stairwell. Of the dozen men in his employ, Gunnar found Cedric to be among the most dutiful, never failing to carry out an order, where others--and one in particular, by the name of Burc--seemed to take exception to every command he issued when it did not directly serve their interests. Cedric was the only man with him at the moment in whom he would have entrusted Raina's custody.

“No trouble?” Gunnar asked.

“None, milord.” The tall, kindly-faced knight lowered his voice to just above a whisper. “I heard her snufflin' soon after ye sent me up, but she's been quiet as a mouse fer hours now.”

Dismissing his man, Gunnar opened the door and entered the chamber, closing the panel behind him and stepping inside with surprising stealth, given his current condition. Raina, curled up on his blanket like a babe, slept undisturbed as he crouched down before the brazier with his gathered kindling and watched her from the corner of his eye.

Her sleep had been restless; he could tell from the way her bliaut had twisted and worked its way up her legs, baring her pale, delicate ankles and the supple curve of one shapely calf. Her single, discarded slipper lay off to the side of her makeshift pallet and Gunnar marveled that even her feet were lovely, slender and fine-boned like her hands, which were pressed together and tucked under her cheek.

Her serene expression made her look to him like an angel in repose. So lovely, so innocent. So unlike the demon who had sired her.

He could almost see how a woman like this could gentle a man. How a proud, loving daughter like her could temper even a man as evil as d'Bussy.

He should have left the woman. Saints' blood, what was he thinking in capturing her? Granted, she was his best, most certain means of getting close to d'Bussy, but would that she had been a hag, a soured, mean-spirited wench, and not this...lamb.

Would that she had been anything but this strong and beautiful woman who had intrigued him from the moment he first laid eyes on her. Bewitched him with a pure and simple kiss at the tourney. Tempted him now, even in sleep.

Gunnar cursed silently, raking an angry hand through his hair. He had to remember his mission, had to remain focused. Had to distance himself from her and remove his distractions, beginning with the one that had been vexing him from the moment he'd received it.

Unfastening the drawstring of the leather pouch tied to his baldric, Gunnar withdrew one of the two treasures secreted inside, one that had proved nearly as troubling to his peace of mind as the token Merrick had returned to him this eve. But whereas his father's ring was heavy and cool, this prize was whisper soft, light as a feather and the precise color of a pale blue summer sky.

Gunnar brought the swatch of silk to his face, tempted to feel it against his skin as he had done privately, guiltily, in the nights that followed the tournament. Before he had the chance to torture himself with the pleasure once more, he crushed the fabric in his fist and released it into the brazier, turning away as the flames caught its edges and quickly devoured it.

He placed the satchel of bread and cheese beside Raina, along with the wineskin, then took his place at the wall opposite her, propping his back against the stone and resting his elbows on his drawn-up knees.

A weariness settled in his bones almost immediately, weighing down his shoulders and dragging his chin to his chest, beckoning him toward sleep.

The nightmare started the moment his eyes drifted closed.

Chapter 8

Raina awoke to the soft hiss and snap of the fire, and the yeasty aroma of bread and smoked cheese wafting over from somewhere near her head. Drowsily, she opened her eyes to mere slits in the quiet, dimly illuminated chamber, watching as the blaze cast flickering shadows on the wall. A draft of air from the window across the room fanned her backside, the coolness racing up her legs a clear sign that her skirts, bunched up and twisted around her knees, no longer covered her from view.

Rest had not come easily, she recalled, and wondered how long she had been sleeping. How long Rutledge had been away and where he had gone. She knew he was in the room now, could feel his presence even before she heard the deep breathing of a man sound asleep.

She rolled over to face him and sat up quietly, her body stiff and achy but not too terribly kinked, thanks to Rutledge's blanket spread beneath her. He slept sitting up, his back pressed to the wall near the window, his thick forearms propped on his knees and his chin slumped into his chest. He hadn't made personal use of his mantle; it lay next to the hearth with a small bunch of kindling atop it. He must have started the fire, too, and left her the supply of food and a skin of wine.

How hospitable, she thought, for a kidnapper. Lord, she hated to accept any more of his kindnesses, scant as they were, but she
was
hungry. Dreadfully so. She cast a sidelong glance at the bundle of food and clutched her growling midsection.

Just to quiet the noise, she reasoned, unwrapping the pack. She broke off a corner of the cheese and stuffed it into her mouth, chewing the chalky morsel as she tiptoed to the window and, pressing herself flat against the wall, peered over the ledge to where Rutledge's men had posted camp. Not a one moved, all of them snoring like some strange, nocturnal chorus.

An anxious quiver sent her heart racing.

Good heavens, she was nearly afraid to think it...nearly afraid to hope.
With everyone asleep, she could escape.
Thwart Rutledge's horrible trade by simply walking out the door and riding off on one of the horses.

Back to Norworth, back home, to her father.

Seizing the opportunity, she crossed the chamber on light feet and stopped at the door, reaching for the iron latch and ready to take her flight when Rutledge's voice rumbled from behind her.

“N-No...”

It was a groan more than an order for her to stay, but nevertheless, her hand stilled. Her feet stopped moving. The murmured entreaty came again, this time louder, more pained. Slowly, Raina glanced over her shoulder.

Rutledge's head had lolled onto his shoulder, his eyes closed, but his brow was pinched, his mouth alternately quirking and grimacing. He drew a sharp breath and his body jerked. This time his voice was an anguished whisper. “Please...oh, God, nooo...”

Catching her lip between her teeth, Raina turned away from him at once, squeezing her eyes closed and trying not to feel a bit of sympathy for him. If he suffered from night terrors, let him. They were likely born of his own cruelty and certainly no concern of hers. Her only concern should be getting as far as she could from this hateful, slumbering monster and back to the haven of her father's arms.

Steeling herself against the troubled sounds of Rutledge's thrashing, his distressed moaning, Raina curled her fingers around the cold metal ring on the door and opened it. Behind her, his breathing had become labored, panicky.

Go,
her mind pleaded.
Go, and forget him!

A moan turned to a strange-sounding whimper, then: “Nay, Mother! Oh, God, nay! Mur-murderer...d'Bussy.”

Raina couldn't move. Dieu, she could scarcely breathe.

She stood stock-still in the doorway of that chamber, heart thudding, stomach clenched in a tight ball. Mercy, but even in his dreams he accused her father of murder. It simply could not be true. But the pain, the terror in his voice was undeniable.

It was impossible simply to walk away from it.

Hesitantly, she pivoted on her heel, and when her eyes lit on him, she was powerless to stop the wave of sympathy from crashing over her. This behemoth of a man, this heartless warrior, now lay there crumpled against the wall, a sheen of sweat glistening on his brow, bested by a bad dream.

Abandoning her plan to escape and cursing herself as a fool for doing so, Raina stepped back into the chamber.

* * *

The images flew at Gunnar in rapid succession behind his closed eyelids: the rumble of siege; terrorized screams and thick, black smoke drifting up from the bailey and into the window of the chamber; heavy, booted footsteps coming to a halt outside the door, followed by an order to open it; his mother's arms around his shoulders in a protective embrace, her steady heartbeat at his back as she whispered soothingly that everything would be all right, that he should not be afraid.

God, but he was afraid! Gripped with terror and so very, very frightened. But still, he moved out of her arms to pick up his father's heavy sword, trying to ignore the aching strain of the weapon in his small hands.

And then, the chamber door burst open.

Garbed in chain mail and armed for war, Baron Luther d'Bussy stood at the threshold, smiling malevolently as he swiped back his mail coif, his red-rimmed eyes ablaze with murderous intent.

“My lady, you insult me,” he drawled. “I come to offer my condolences for the loss of your husband and you greet me with locked gates and barred doors.” The baron pinned Gunnar with a chilling blue gaze. “Now what am I to make of this?”

“Leave us be,” Gunnar cried. “As lord of Wynbrooke, I demand you go!”

Even now, in his sleep, he felt the rush of anger, the impotence of his threat. D'Bussy had merely smiled--then, and in the thousand nightmares since--hooking one side of his mantle around the shiny hilt of his broadsword. “You are no lord,” he said. “You are a child, and a pitiful weak one at that.
I
am lord here. Your father was my vassal, and now that he is dead, you, your mother,
and
Wynbrooke are mine to do with as I please.”

And the baron had issued a challenge: “You want to kill me, do you not, boy? Aye, you want to shred me to ribbons.” He chuckled, spreading his arms wide. “Come, then, test your mettle.”

As happened nearly every night since that fateful day, Gunnar met the challenge, each time hoping he would indeed run the tyrant through, bury his sword deep in the baron's rotund gut and watch as he fell to the floor in a quivering, bloody heap. But his dreams were never any more kind than reality had been: He charged d'Bussy, heard his mother cry out from behind him, felt the swipe of the baron's mail-covered arm and the sudden, surprising weightlessness of his father's weapon, then heard the humiliating clatter as it fell to the floor.

Within moments the baron's men had Gunnar restrained, captured in a guard's crushing embrace as the baron advanced and withdrew a small dagger.

“Not only are you weak, but stupid, too,” he said on a sour cloud of spiced wine. “Mayhap a reminder of your foolishness is in order.”

Bravely, his mother rushed forward to his defense. “Nay!” she cried. “Please, milord, do not harm my son!”

With a smile that said the interruption was merely a postponement of their confrontation, the baron turned away from Gunnar. “I did not come with intent to harm, Lady Eleanor. Quite the contrary. I've come to offer you a place in my home...as my wife. You see, my own dear Margareth departed her life just yestermorn, through a dreadful misfortune.” The baron heaved a sigh. “Poisoned herself, the silly, hopeless creature.”