Lord of Vengeance (8 page)

Drink had taken so much of his youth, did he dare permit it enter his life anew?

The pain of what he had forsaken bloomed before him so vividly, he nearly let the bottle fall from his grasp. But it was the numbing promise of inebriation that coaxed him past the old memories, and he tipped the flagon up and drank of it, heedless of the trickle that ran from his mouth to stain his fine silk tunic.

After so many years of abstinence, the wine seared his throat, burning a vaporous trail to his gut and providing a welcome--albeit, brief--distraction from the pain clutching his heart, nay, his very soul. The bitter heat brought on a spasm of coughing, but it soon ebbed, easing into a comfortable, warm mellowness the old baron had nearly forgotten existed.

How easy it would be, he mused, to douse his guilt in wine. How tempting the notion to drown in a drunken haze and escape his fear and guilt, if only for a few short hours.

Another sip and he knew he would be powerless to stop himself from emptying the flagon entirely. Another taste and he would be lost again, perhaps for good. But what of it?

He had nothing left to lose. The baron caressed the flagon almost reverently, then chuckled aloud.

It was true; with Raina gone, nothing mattered. He had protected her from hurt and harm all these years, cherishing her, the only good to come from his wretched life. He had managed to bury the stain of his past misdeeds, keeping himself sober out of love for her. Out of fear of losing her, were she ever to discover the man her father truly was. And now she was gone.

Morosely, Luther d'Bussy stared into the flagon. He brought it to his mouth once more and drained it. He dragged his forearm across his mouth, coughing and wheezing in the wine's potent wake.

Bitter tears filled his eyes, burning like fire as the ache swelled in his chest and a gnawing guilt chewed at his heart. A rumble began in his belly and crept slowly up from within him to fill first his head, then the entire keep, with the anguished howl of a man who had lost everything.

* * *

A wolf bayed somewhere in the distance as Rutledge's mount plunged into a forest thicket with the other two riders at its heels. Raina felt each thundering fall of the beast's hooves, each stride jarring her to the bone so hard, she feared she would be thrown from the saddle. But every wild jolt was countered by Rutledge's firm hold about her waist, his thick muscled arm securing her to the wall of his chest.

Raina cursed herself for falling into his hands so easily. She should have died before she let him take her this way. The fact that he hadn't killed her only enraged her further, for that could only mean he intended to use her in some way to get to her father. She thought of her poor father, beside himself with grief at her being taken, knowing he would do anything to ensure her safe return.

That thought should bring her comfort, but it did not. Rutledge was likely counting on her father's devotion and would use it to his advantage. Despite her efforts to banish the thought from her mind, her imagination conjured all manner of examples, each one more horrific than the next.

She should be brave. She should wrench herself from Rutledge's iron grasp, no matter the outcome. Aye, in light of the outcome. The thundering steeds would surely trample her in the space of a heartbeat. If she were dead, Rutledge would have no bargaining strength and her father might yet be spared.

She closed her eyes and concentrated on the relentless beating of the horses' hooves until it was all she could hear. The thrumming rhythm soon filled her ears and beckoned her to come. Holding her breath and praying for a quick end, Raina prepared herself to lunge from the saddle.

At that moment Rutledge pulled back on the reins, tightening his hold on her and slowing his mount to a trot as they passed beneath a canopy of branches and into a small clearing. The familiar jangle of armor and the impatient shuffling of horses drew Raina's attention.

A group of at least a dozen haggard men awaited, mounted and armed for battle. Most eyed her with mild interest; one man muttered something about “spoils of war” to the chortling appreciation of his companions. Rutledge's arm flexed against her stomach, but he wasted no time with greetings or explanations, instead barking out orders for some of the men to ride ahead while others were instructed to remain on watch for the baron's men.

Within moments they were off again, crashing through the bracken and over the dark countryside at an even greater pace than before.

* * *

Raina had no idea how long they had been riding, nor in what direction. Though she was exhausted, both physically and emotionally, she kept herself alert should the opportunity to escape present itself. She divided her waning concentration between fearing for her life and the practical yet impossible task of committing the dark landscape to memory as it sped by.

The moon mocked her, peering through the treetops as a great silvery orb, throwing light and shadow in every direction, creating form where none existed and masking what remained. Trees and hills, rocks and glades, blurred into amorphous nothingness with each stride of Rutledge's steed. The frantic beating of Raina's heart soon became lost amid thundering hooves and night sounds. Twigs snapped beneath them; branches reached out of the darkness with spindly fingers to tear at her gown and catch her hair as they passed. Naked fear and the chill of the night air raised gooseflesh on her skin.

Suddenly, with a lurching forward keen, Rutledge's mount bounded over the edge of a ravine. For the space of a heartbeat the air around them seemed to still, save for the unmistakable rush of water somewhere nearby. Raina hadn't realized they'd left the ground until the beast came down with a bone-jarring thud that crushed the wind from her lungs and dislodged one of her slippers on impact.

She felt Rutledge's powerful thighs grip the destrier as he urged it on along a mucky riverbed. All the while his heart thundered at her back, his breath coming fast and hot against her ear. He seemed to take the pounding in stride, while Raina could only pray for it to end before she was jostled to her death.

Though she imagined his backside must ache as sorely as hers, it wasn't until sometime later, when the rosy hues of dawn began to seep through the pines, that Rutledge eased up on his mount. He reined in, slowing the snorting beast to a trot. Frothy sweat coated the destrier's neck and shoulders, its sides heaved with labored breaths. The saddle creaked as Rutledge leaned into her back and dismounted, then pulled her into his arms and set her on the ground.

Having been off her feet for so long, Raina could now scarcely feel them beneath her. At once her calves began to tingle in the most peculiar way, and her knees started to buckle. To her dismay and outrage, Rutledge reached out to steady her, his large hands circling her upper arms as if they were no more than slender twigs.

Then he released her and drew a small blade from his baldric.

Raina's shriek was only a muffled grunt behind her gag as she jumped backward and fell on her rump. Her skirt breezed up over her knees when she landed, but she did naught to cover her bare legs, her mind preoccupied with the weapon Rutledge brandished at her.

He glanced at the dagger in his hand, then chuckled. “Think you I would drag you all this way only to slit your throat here in this glade?” His expression grew serious. “Come hither, girl.” He held his hand out to her, palm up. “We haven't got all day, milady. Do you wish to be free of your bindings or nay?”

Tentatively, and half expecting him to lob off her hands at the wrists, Raina reached out to him, turning her face away lest she witness their loss. With a deft upward flick of his blade, Rutledge sliced through the linen ties, and they fell limp to the forest floor. Blood immediately raced to her hands, creating a dull throb of pain.

“As long as you obey me,” he said, hunkering down to crouch at her feet, “you have no need to fear me.”

His promise more resembled a warning, she thought, delivered as it was with his eyes narrowed and the knife pointed toward her face.

Raina's wary gaze followed the blade as one strong hand circled her ankle and he cut the bindings loose. Though the ties had fallen away, his grasp about her leg lingered, remarkably warm and unsettling, until he glanced up and found her staring at him, wide-eyed. Seemingly unable to mask his distaste for her, he released her ankle with a black scowl, then tossed her skirt over her knees in what appeared a hasty effort to hide her legs from his view.

He stood, holding his hand out to her with a look of impatience in his eyes. Raina accepted and he helped her to her feet, holding her close for the moment it took until her balance was righted.

Her hands could barely close about his forearms, and when her eyes met his, she saw in them a wicked gleam--like that of a hungry wolf. At once, she backed out of his strange embrace, balling her fists in her skirts and wondering how far she could get on foot.

“Do not think to flee, milady,” he said as if able to read her thoughts. “You'll not get far before I catch you, and should I not, there are many others lurking in these woods who would prove to be far more worrisome to your well-being.”

With that, he moved forward, reaching around her head to cut away the linen gag. Before she knew what was happening, her face was in his chest and her nose filled with his scent. An arousing muskiness mingled with the tang of his chain mail and the faint smell of leather, creating an indelible stamp in her mind that would forever be him.

Raina stretched her jaw, rubbing at her chafed, raw lips as Rutledge sheathed his dagger. “W-where are you taking me?” she croaked on a dry throat.

“'Tis none of your concern where. You have my word, no harm will come to you as long as you obey me.”

“Your noblesse astounds,” she seethed. “As does your arrogance, if you truly expect me to heed your commands.”

“Is that so? If I had the time, my lady, I should very much like to prove the substance behind my arrogance. As it is, I have other, more pressing matters to attend.”

Without another word, he reached out and grabbed her by the wrist, meaning to haul her after him, but Raina dug her heels into the ground, pulling against his grip.

Rutledge turned to look at her, obvious disbelief flashing across his features. He smiled wryly and gave her arm a yank. She skidded forward a pace but held her ground, lifting her chin.

“Stubborn chit,” he grumbled as he moved toward her, catching her under the arms and heaving her over his shoulder like a sack of grain. The hoots and applause of Rutledge's men sounded the moment her feet left the ground.

“Show 'er who's in charge,” one man hollered.

“Seems the wench needs a taste o' yer blade, milord!”

Raina screamed her protest, kicking and pummeling his back with her fists, but if he felt her blows, he ignored them. He stalked away from the crowd of cheering men to deposit her on a cushiony seat of moss at the base of a large oak. Grinning down at her, he made to unfasten his mantle.

“W-what are you doing?” she gasped.

“You needn't fret, milady, I've no intention of ravishing you just now. We've stopped only to rest the horses.” He dropped the cloak in her lap. “Sleep if you wish. We've still a long leg of our journey left, and you look exhausted already.”

Raina kicked the woolen warmth away from her, preferring to freeze to death before she accepted any token of his consideration. Besides, his offering of comfort was likely just an ill-concealed attempt to put her off guard, to dispose of her, if only for a short time, so he could discuss his plans without her notice.

Nay, she refused to so much as entertain the idea of sleep, no matter how tempting it might be. Never would she turn her back or close her eyes while in his treacherous presence. She trusted her glare to communicate her feelings about the notion.

Rutledge shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he muttered, stalking away from her to tether his mount to a tree next to the other horses.

“Despicable brute!” Raina called after him. “You are dead! Do you hear me? When my father catches up with you--and mark me, he will!--you are dead!”

Amused laughter rumbled from his retreating form, and she thought she heard him say he was already dead.

Chapter 5

Nigel led his band of half a dozen men through the woods surrounding Norworth and onward, following only his instincts. He rode like a man possessed, ignoring the shrieks of his destrier as he jabbed his pick-spurs into its sides, ignoring the pleas of his men to ease off that they might conserve their mounts' stamina.

All Nigel could hear was his future fluttering away on Rutledge's heels. What filled his ears were the sounds of his mother cackling as she told him he would never amount to anything. That he was bastard born and bastard would he die. Nigel had refused to accept it then, and he refused to accept it now.

Raina was his best hope of gaining lands and the title he so deserved. That thought alone gave him strength, urged him on throughout the night and into the next morn when he was given a small reward for his troubles.

They had stopped at a stream to water the horses and gather a few hours' rest when one of the men came bounding out of the bracken, shouting with alarm. He held his sagging chausses with one hand, clutching an object in the other and waving it over his head.

“Ho, Hubert!” called a knight standing beside Nigel. “What have you got there, a wee snake?”

Nigel's eyes narrowed, his focus narrowing on Hubert. “Nay, fool, not a snake,” he snapped, recognizing Raina's slipper wagging in the knight's pudgy hand. Several angry strides and Nigel was at his side, snatching the slipper from the beaming knight with an impatient snarl.

“Ready the horses!” he barked, clutching the slipper to his chest, nearly giddy with relief.

It was clearly a sign, a confirmation that he had been guided here for a reason. God, it seemed, was smiling upon him for once in his life. He was on the right path, and Rutledge couldn't be far.