Love's Magic (13 page)

“Oh, Nicholas.” She was about to reach out to him despite the damage it would do to her own body, when Petyr, along with Henry and Stephan, came running around the tent, swords drawn.

“My lord,” Henry panted, “we heard shouting.”

Celestia realized that Nicholas was not yet capable of answering; he was fighting his way back to reality. She bent over him, shielding his body from his men with her own. She plucked the fur she had thrown down to wake him from his nightmare and wrapped it around her shoulders, affecting what she hoped was a feminine pose.

“I’m sorry, sirs.” She looked down and giggled. “We were, uh, sleeping, and I thought I saw a bear in the trees. Please, go back to your beds, it was nothing.”

She kept her eyes lowered, as if shy. With her hair loose and dressed in only her shift, she hoped that she and Nicholas had just perpetuated their lover status. She laughed adoringly and dropped to her knees to snuggle on the bedroll next to her husband.

“Sorry, my lady,” Henry said, his eyes wide until Petyr cuffed him on the back of the head.

Nicholas blinked, and Celestia could tell he was coming around. She took his hand in hers and dropped a kiss on his nose. “The men are worried that you’ve been attacked by the bear I thought I saw,” she giggled inanely. Somehow it sounded better when her sister did it.

He sat up, raking a hand through his hair. “I think ye knocked me cold in your exuberance,” he laughed, then waved the men away. “As you can see, we are fine, although I think we might move back inside. Eh?”

He stood, and Celestia noticed Petyr realize that Nicholas was completely dressed. The knight flicked his eyes to her, but said nothing.

Nicholas pulled her to her feet and chuckled with the men. “I don’t think I could get back to sleep,” Henry snickered, and when Celestia sent him a disapproving frown, said, “I can take the next watch.”

Petyr shrugged, not hiding his suspicion. “The fire’s almost out.”

Celestia tugged on her husband’s hand, determined to get him inside the tent and get some answers.

Nicholas wiped a hand over his forehead, as if to clear his mind. “That phantom bear has me wide awake. Besides, it is only fair that I take a turn on watch. I’ve had my,” he smiled down at her with his lips, but his eyes remained dark, “entertainment for the night.”

Henry laughed appreciatively, which irritated Celestia, although she couldn’t deny the statement without creating a bigger problem. For certes, this husband business was most annoying.

“Don’t be so stubborn,” Celestia pleaded with Nicholas.

Petyr smirked. “Stubborn? I say tenacious. The man is so single-minded that he doesn’t see beyond the end of his rather large nose.”

Nicholas sent Petyr a glare that didn’t seem to affect the blond knight overmuch, as he grinned and walked away, taking the two other knights with him.

The entire time they had been talking, Nicholas had handily steered Celestia toward the tent flap. His fingers pressed hers, and then he kissed her forehead before shoving her inside. “Stay there, Celestia, and sleep. We can talk in the morn.”

No, she thought rebelliously, watching the flap drop closed. She would give it an hour, and then she would go to him. They needed to talk tonight.

Chapter
Seven

N
icholas stoked the low burning embers of the fire with a long stick. How much had she heard? Had he hurt her when she’d tried to wake him? Brother Mark had told him that sometimes he yelled clearly when in the throes of a nightmare, but other times he yelled gibberish. Gibberish. The man hadn’t understood Arabic, thank God.

He smiled before remembering that Brother Mark might be dead. If Baron Peregrine had anything to do with the burning of the monastery, then—Nicholas paused in poking at the fire. Then, what? The baron was already going to die, in order to avenge the deaths of the innocent men on the caravan. Nicholas grimaced. There was death. The memories of torture were fresh in his mind, thanks be to the nightmare he’d slipped into. And then there was
death.

He’d have to make the sacrifice to Saint James large enough to cover a multitude of sins. He tapped a fiery log, watching the sparks fly upward. “Falling prey to the ambush. Losing the sacred relic. I should have been more vigilant.” He tapped the log again, harder this time. “I should have fought Leah harder, from the beginning.” His belly cramped with shame. She’d withheld food, and water—she’d kept him chained to a wall. Her husband’s men would beat him close to death during the day, and she—she would come at night, an evil succubus with opium and sex.

He threw the entire stick into the small flames. He didn’t want to see pity in Celestia’s beautiful light-filled eyes. Vengeance moved him out of the clinging past. Searching his spirit for anything good made him ill, and he didn’t have the strength to manage it. The idea of the baron’s neck beneath his sword pumped his blood and got him moving. Revenge first, redemption later.

Pah! Being saddled with a wife, a retinue of knights, and a keep he would need to fortify for battle weighted him under with obligations. What would happen if he died without meting out earthly justice on behalf of Saint James, and, yes, Nicholas gulped over the lump in his throat, even God?

The fire lulled him into reliving his mistakes. Oh, aye, he thought with a heavy heart. He’d made a thorough accounting of where he had gone wrong, and losing the relic was only the tip of the stack. By not reaching King Richard, he’d compromised the win of the Holy Land—he alone had survived the ambush; the rest had all been slaughtered. His chest squeezed painfully. And worse, despite the torture she’d done him, he’d murdered a woman in order to save himself.

Nicholas sighed in weary defeat. It might have been better if he’d let her kill him first.

Abbot Crispin said he had to forgive himself, but each time he tried, he remembered how hot the day had been. The sand was in each eyelash and, God’s bones, he’d been tired from drinking the night before.

He should have been paying more attention to the caravan, but he’d allowed himself to be lulled into a doze by the boiling sun and monotonous sand. He’d had one duty, to deliver the relic to King Richard on behalf of Baron Peregrine. The artifact from Saint James could turn the tide in a holy war!

He’d failed. Bitterly.

The memory, even now, was so real that he could feel sand gritted between his teeth, and smell the metallic scent of freshly spilt blood.

Nicholas threw on another log. His defenses were down tonight, more than likely because he’d started to open his heart to Celestia.

“Nicholas?”

He jumped from the log he’d been sitting on, his hand on his hip though no sword rested there. “What are you doing here?”

Her eyes beguiled; her smile tempted. Celestia was innocent and clean, and he didn’t deserve the compassion in her gaze. “I brought water.”

“Nay.”

“Surely you must be thirsty?”

He was. He had been. Stubborn, he sat back down without taking the waterskin.

She sat next to him, smelling of oranges and cinnamon. He ignored the soft press of her arm against his as they sat, each staring into the low burning fire.

“You don’t take direction well,” he finally said.

“No,” she agreed with what sounded like true regret in her voice. “That’s never been something I’ve succeeded at, more the pity.” She laughed softly. “‘Tis the terrible truth that I am much better at giving instructions.”

Nicholas chuckled, grateful that the darkness inside his head was retreating before Celestia’s light.

“What are you thinking that has your brow scrunched forward, my lord?”

“None of your concern,” he paused. “What did you hear?”

“Much that made my blood run cold, and then thirst hot, for the chance to avenge the wrong done to you.”

“What? You would go to battle for me?” He drew back, studying her face.

“Aye. It was wrong, what happened.
She,
this Leah, was wrong, too.”

Nicholas couldn’t breathe. For what seemed like eternity, he was back in the cell again, being tormented for a sick bitch’s pleasure.

The cool press of Celestia’s bare fingers against the nape of his neck eased the panic, until he could control the direction of his thoughts. Then she circled her other hand around the scars on his left wrist.

Rape.
Nicholas blamed the heat in his cheeks on the jumping flames from the fire. His captor’s wife had raped him repeatedly during his captivity. She’d needed a child to keep her husband from setting her aside, and since he was not providing her with one, she was willing to try other measures in order to save her own life. Lovely Leah, with the lush curves and ebony hair, had given him opium in order to control him, and then manipulated his body to achieve her goals. After nine months, she remained barren.

He remembered the tears that had fallen from her coal-black, almond-shaped eyes, how she had held him close to her and whispered her love. That was when he’d felt the tip of the sharp blade at his throat. He had perversely decided he was not ready to die after all.

“Nicholas,” Celestia cried softly. “I am so sorry.”

Something in her tone pulled him from his memories, and brought him back to the present. He found the courage to look at her, and his heart thumped as he saw the tears glittering on Celestia’s face, twin rivers falling over her cheeks. The dancing flames colored her, surrounding her in a bewitched web. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

The dread returned to the pit of Nicholas’s stomach. “You could see what happened? Just now?”

She hiccupped, and brought her fingertips to her lips. The calm demeanor she usually wore like a satin cloak was gone, replaced by borderline hysteria.

“I, she deserved to die, praise be that you survived. She sedated you, and abused you, and told you that she loved you—I’m terribly sorry, Nicholas.”

Uneasy over many things, the first being that Celestia just saw his shame, that by touching him with her bare hands she could see into his inner self, made him back away. Mayhap he had been wrong, and she was a witch. He’d heard of those who could perform supernatural tricks.

“Sorry? Calm yourself. It isn’t like ye did it, my lady.”

She stood, wringing her hands as if she’d committed a crime and he was the executioner. The dread climbed from his belly to his chest.

“But I did, Nicholas.”

He stilled. “You did? You did what?”

Crying, his wife said, “I drugged your wine, just a little, to help you sleep—and then told you that I cared—and I do,” she dropped her hands to her sides. “I was going to seduce you, and then I could not, and then—between us, surely you feel the attraction there?” Her odd eyes reflected the flames of the fire.

He was in hell.

Nicholas felt the blackness racing for him like a swarm of sand beetles. He wouldn’t bow under; he dare not. It had taken everything within him to survive it once.
She
reached for him, this demon witch masquerading as an angel.

“Be gone!” he yelled, and because that didn’t seem adequate, he threw back his head and roared his rage to the heavens.

Celestia was no mewling, toddling babe afraid of her own shadow. But when a fat raindrop landed on her nose like a heavy spider; she squirmed in her saddle and bit back a feminine squeal.

By all the saints, she was exhausted. So tired that she would swear shimmering ghosts leered at her between heavy, wet tree branches and hunchbacked monsters lurked beyond every turn of the thin trail. She pulled her hood farther down over her forehead and glared at Nicholas’s back.

He didn’t seem to notice the rain that fell in solid sheets from the sky, the thunder that roared with evil portent, nor the wickedness that shadowed them in the forest. She wondered what it would take to bring him back into the world of the living. He’d hardly uttered more than a single word for the past three days, and she’d noticed even Petyr had grown weary of his lord’s surly monosyllabic grunts and groans.

If it weren’t so unbearably wet and mucky, she would walk alongside her mare. Her thighs had never been so sore. Her bottom was chafed and her back ached and it hadn’t stopped raining long enough to be able to build a fire for either warmth or hot food.

Dry clothes? She made a loud noise through her nose, and Ceffyl gave a sympathetic neigh. The canopy of tightly woven oak and pine branches over the trail was the only thing that had kept them all from drowning. They’d been plagued by tortuous weather, broken wheels, and bad luck. She trained her eyes on Nicholas; at least her anger at her aloof husband served to keep her warm.

She probably had no right to be angry, she admitted once again. But Nicholas refused to let her explain what had happened. It would soothe her injured pride if she could slander his character, but she knew in her heart that he was a good man. She’d inadvertently done him a deep wrong.

Goose bumps raced up her arms, and a foul chill settled at her nape. Celestia looked over her shoulder and searched the trees, uneasy. Huffing, she told herself firmly that it was much too wet and miserable for spirits to be roaming the woods. Still, she slowed Ceffyl’s pace, angling closer to the wagon and her shivering maids.

When Bess, who had been riding one of the packhorses in order to lighten the wagon’s load, claimed that her horse had picked up a stone, it was Nicholas who had helped her down, as if he were a Knight in Shining Armor and Maid Bess the most delicate of women. She sniffed. If Ceffyl had been the one to pick up a stone, Celestia just knew they would still be hobbling down the trail, more the pity.

Even though Nicholas left Petyr in charge of the retinue, he partook of his share and more of the nightly chores. She knew, for certes, that he never failed to check on the group’s welfare before he rolled himself up in his woolen blanket; not that he slept. She was reluctantly awed by his stubbornness.

How long could he continue to deprive his body of rest? He would close his eyes for no more than a quarter hour; it was as if he had trained his body to jerk awake the moment he fell too close to a true sleep.

What had Petyr called him? Tenacious? She smiled from the deep recesses of her sodden cloak. Nicholas had been charged with seeing them all safely to Falcon Keep, and that was exactly what he was going to do. Stubborn and single-minded, that was her husband.

Ceffyl started as a branch whacked her on the nose, causing Celestia to slide to the right of her saddle. She grabbed the pommel and adjusted her seat, lifting her eyes just as Nicholas looked back at the noise. He stopped, his grayish-black eyes shadowed beneath his hood, yet she could feel the probe of them as he ascertained her welfare. She raised a gloved palm to let him see she was fine, and felt strangely bereft when he turned and continued on behind Henry.

All of the horses were sliding on the muddy trail, and Celestia was surprised that the wagon had been stuck but once, not counting the time they’d stopped because the left wheel was broken. Bertram had caught up with them, but hadn’t brought the sun.

According to Petyr, they were only a day’s ride from Falcon Keep. She ignored a stab of homesickness and thought of a hot fire, warm clothing, and a decent meal. There would be a great hall with a large fire pit, and friendly servants. The castellan would be kind, and offer to stay on until Celestia could learn her duties at the keep. She’d been reluctant to arrive, but that was before she started to mold.

Celestia’s teeth chattered, and it was not as simple as the wet, cold weather. Dread surrounded her like a fog, and she tried to pinpoint from whence came her fear.

She was old enough to know that most ghosts were a product of an overactive imagination or too much wine, but she was smart enough to accept that sometimes they were spirits bent on communicating, whether the person was willing or not.

Just then she heard a rustling to the left of the trees, and then she saw an arrow, a very real arrow, fly through the line of men. She heard Nicholas give a shrill whistle, saw Petyr slow his horse and turn, just as the arrow landed with a loud thunk in his saddlebag.

Thinking only of Nicholas, and her vision of his injury, Celestia kicked her heels into Ceffyl’s flanks, shouting to Viola, “Get my bow and arrow! Bess, take cover, we are under attack!”