The Crimson Lady (17 page)

Braedan sucked in his breath as he saw Draven walking away from their scuffling, knowing that this kind of chance wouldn’t come again. He forced himself to push his worry over Fiona to the back of his mind for now, needing to concentrate on what he was doing so that he could help her in a more effective way. The two fallen guards had already gotten to their feet and were reaching for their swords, while the third was swinging at them with his blade. Everything seemed muddled and chaotic. The rain fell thickly, serving as a sort of buffer while he, Will, and Rufus sidestepped and dodged the blows of the guards.

Squinting in the rain, Braedan pulled the group nearer to where the soldiers had tossed their swords in a pile; as they careened around in their connected struggle, he managed to slip his toe beneath the hilt of one weapon, flipping it up in the air to catch it with his bound hands. Then, tipping the blade skyward, he released his grip and let its weight slide the edge against the wet rope at his wrists, cutting through it as if it were no more than string. Released at last from both his bonds and the tether to Will and Rufus, he grasped the hilt again and swung around, just catching the stroke of one guard’s blade against his arm in the process. Swallowing a grunt of pain, he retaliated, disabling the man with a sharp blow to the head.

He managed to hold off the other two guards until Rufus and Will could retrieve their swords and cut loose their own bonds as well. Though Will looked more pale and haggard than before, Braedan knew he had no choice but to leave him and Rufus to handle their captors so that he could go to Fiona’s aid. Draven had already pushed her into the coach and was securing the door as Braedan approached with a feral growl, hurtling at him with sword upraised. His uncle must have sensed the attack, for he spun around, unsheathing his own weapon as he did to meet the deathblow Braedan had aimed at him.

Heat and battle instinct surged through Braedan as he fought the man who had caused him and his family so much misery. The sudden rain shower was beginning to ebb, but the air still felt heavy with moisture; the fertile scents of wet greenery and dirt filled Braedan’s senses as he breathed heavily with the exertion of the fight, his wounded arm aching each time he clashed his sword with Draven’s.

Their skill was almost evenly matched, but where Draven had trained in castle yards and tournament lists to master his impressive technique, Braedan had been tested in deadly battles abroad—and even wounded as he was, it was giving him the advantage. Using a move that had saved his neck more than once on the field at Saint-Jean-d’Acre, Braedan came at Draven straight on, lowering his blade at the last moment to catch it under his uncle’s upraised hilt. With a spinning twist, he hooked it and sent the sword spinning from Draven’s grip, leaving him vulnerable to an assault.

Draven looked startled for an instant when he realized that Braedan’s blade was pressed to his throat; he
froze, palms up in surprise. But in the next breath his usual expression of calm control settled over his face again. Braedan longed to drive his blade deep into his bastard uncle’s throat—to end it all right there and then—but something about Draven’s expression held him back. He glanced first toward Will and Rufus, who, thanks to Will’s weak condition, had been subdued once more by their guards, then he looked at his coach, where Fiona was framed in the window, still confined there by the soldier Draven had chastised earlier, his sword leveled at the door.

“It seems we are at an
impasse
, nephew,” Draven murmured, his sensuous mouth twisting. “You have me at the point of your blade, but I have your friends and sweet Giselle at the point of mine…figuratively of course.”

“It will be a moot point if you’re dead,” Braedan muttered, putting more pressure on his blade, enough to draw blood and a flare of animosity from Draven’s midnight gaze.

“I would consider your choices very carefully Braedan,” Draven intoned in a low, even voice. “With or without my direct command, my men will slaughter their captives—all of them—if you take similar action against me. So while you may succeed in killing me, you will needs bear the guilt of knowing you sent three others to their deaths in the moments before my men converge on you and send you to your maker.” He shifted his gaze to Braedan’s wounded arm. “You may be very skilled with that weapon of yours, nephew, but my men are well trained also; you’ll stand no chance of surviving their combined attack. It will be three on one. Think on it.”

Braedan stiffened, aching to drive the point of his blade home, but his common sense battled against the move. While he was more than willing to risk his own life for the pleasure of removing his corrupt relative from the face of the earth, it was another thing altogether to sacrifice Fiona, Will, and Rufus in the process. He narrowed his eyes on his uncle, his jaw tightening over what his own better judgment was going to lead him to propose next.

“It seems that we will need to reach some sort of agreement.”

“Oh?” His uncle sounded cautious, though a glimmer of triumph shone in his eyes.

“Aye—your life for the others. Order Giselle’s release and command your men to stand down from their captives. When it is done, you and your soldiers will be allowed to board your coach unharmed.”

Draven made a scoffing sound. “A delightful plan, de Cantor, but for one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“There will be nothing to stop you from killing me once Giselle and your cohorts have been released.”

“You have my word that I will abide by our agreement, if one is made.”

“The word of an
outlaw
?” Draven mocked.

“I am less of a criminal than you are, Draven, and you know it. Decide.”

Draven went still, looking supremely annoyed at having been placed in the position, and Braedan felt a surge of satisfaction in witnessing his discomfort. But the feeling faded a bit when his uncle spoke again. Draven’s jaw looked tight, his elegant, dark brows pulling together in
a scowl as he muttered, “It seems I have little choice; I will have to accept your offer.”

Braedan’s disappointment swelled, part of him still yearning to feel free in making a corpse of the man. But the agreement was struck, and he couldn’t go back on his promise now, not if he wanted to live with himself afterward.

“Order your guard to release Giselle from the coach, then. Once she’s free, he can see to those of yours who have fallen and load inside any who are not dead, the others over the backs of the two mounts behind, with the help of one of those over there,” Braedan ordered, glancing at the soldiers guarding Will and Rufus. “After that is done, the last of the three can drive the coach while the others go inside with the wounded. You will be led over last and secured inside with them, at which time you’ll be allowed to turn around and make your way back to London.”

A charged silence settled over the area, Draven’s expression as black as the thunderclouds that were passing overhead.

“You honestly expect me to trust that once your men are released and all of my men are unavailable to me, you will nonetheless escort me, unharmed, into my coach and allow me to
leave
?” he asked in final, quiet resistance, his eyes glittering with anger.

“You know the de Cantor name, Draven. Long before you married my mother’s sister,” Braedan answered tightly, his own enmity simmering just below the surface, “you knew my father, God rest him, and cannot deny that he was a man of his word. I am his son and will uphold what I have said. Do not question it again.”

The muscle in Draven’s jaw twitched. Never taking his stare from Braedan’s face, he barked a command to his men to commence what had been discussed. Soon, Fiona stood out of danger’s way at the edge of the forest near Will, looking pale and drawn, but nonetheless safe, while Draven’s men were secured in the coach or on the backs of their mounts.

Braedan walked Draven to the conveyance door, keeping the edge of his blade always at his uncle’s throat. Once he’d secured him inside, he jammed a stick Rufus had handed him through the door pulls as an extra measure of protection to prevent those inside from leaving the coach until they reached their destination. Then he stepped back, nodding to the scowling guard who’d been forced into the role of coachman. Draven was sitting next to the window, and he pushed the drapery aside just before the vehicle lurched into motion.

His uncle’s gaze found Fiona, and a half smile curved his lips, sending a warning stab through Braedan an instant before Draven called out to her in a lilting voice, “Never fear, Giselle. Soon we will meet again…and then I shall have you back where you belong.” He blew her a kiss and mouthed something else to her in silence, grinning as the coach rumbled away and out of sight down the roadway.

Braedan turned to look at Fiona. She had gone even paler than before, if that was possible, her eyes wide and her hands fisted in her skirts. With a strangled sound of distress, she suddenly spun on her heel and ran into the woods, ignoring Braedan’s shout to wait. The noise of her flight soon faded into a silence disrupted only by the dripping of the trees and the breeze through the branches.

Cursing under his breath, Braedan sheathed his sword and looked at Will, who was wincing under Rufus’s ministrations as he bound his shoulder. Through gritted teeth, Will said, “Go on and follow her, man; Henry and Tom are dead, God rest them. So is Jepthas, lying in that ditch over there,” he added, jerking his head toward the edge of the copse where the men had first crouched right before the attack. “But my sister will be needin’ some added care after meetin’ up with that bastard again. Go to her. We’ll take care of what’s left here.”

Nodding, Braedan took off into the woods after Fiona, concentrating on keeping to the trail she’d left in the wet forest…

And hoping that, once he found her, he might find a way to chase away the demons that Draven had released to torment her again.

F
iona ran blindly, her throat choking with panic. Tears slid, burning, down her cheeks, and her stomach twisted as she stumbled through the wet bracken, pushing rain-soaked branches aside and welcoming their cool sting against her skin. She needed to flee, to run away—to where she didn’t know. She only knew that she had to get away from Draven. Far, far away…

After what seemed a very long time she was forced to slow, her body rebelling against the pace she’d set. It was no use. She jerked to a stop in the cool damp of a little clearing, bent over and gasping, her heart finally acknowledging what she’d wanted to deny so badly. She’d known it all along, but seeing Draven again out here, where she’d never thought it would be a possibility, had driven the point home with agonizing clarity. She couldn’t escape him.

You’re mine
.

Those words he’d silently mouthed to her just before he left still pounded through her mind, terrorizing her as he’d known they would. No matter how far she ran or how long she was gone, he would always be there…the one man who would never relinquish his claim to her in his twisted sense of mastery and ownership. The enormity of it overwhelmed her, and she fell to her knees, retching. But her stomach was empty, and it offered forth naught but dry, painful heaves. When it was done, she wrapped her arms around herself, the throbbing pain of her wrenched wrist nothing compared to the horror snaking through her. She remained bent over, rocking, a soft, keening cry coming from deep within, and the salt of her tears on her lips.

“Fiona…ah, lady, do not weep…”

Braedan’s utterance, spoken low and in a voice full of tenderness, snapped her from her haze of sickness and fear; she stumbled to her feet, feeling disconnected and shaky, and turned to face him where he stood at the edge of the glade, having difficulty believing that he was there at all.

“Why did you follow me?” she managed to whisper.

“I needed to know you were all right.” He gazed at her, his expression so concerned that it made her long to throw herself in his arms. But she couldn’t do that, not now, not ever. The encounter with Draven had reminded her all too clearly that she wasn’t fit for a man like Braedan de Cantor. Not she, who’d been branded in every sense of the word by Draven’s ruthless possession.

She tried to breathe in deeply, but the air could barely squeeze through the constriction of her throat; the effort only made it ache more than before. Her nails bit into her palms, and she held herself as rigidly as she could,
afraid to move, to blink, even, everything feeling off-balance and raw. It was as if Draven had reached in and curled his fingers in a brutal grip round her heart, claiming her once more with his words, his eyes, his touch. Her skin crawled with the memory of his hands on her, his breath on her skin. She felt like she’d never be clean again, and she didn’t know if she could ever make Braedan understand that.

“I should go back to help with the others now,” she said as she lurched forward, her voice husky with the effort it took to talk. “It was selfish of me to run off like that when the wounded might need tending.”

“Nay,” Braedan said lowly, holding his hand out to her silently and stopping her still. His eyes looked pained, and foreboding settled over her like a shroud. “Rufus was binding Will’s shoulder when I left, and both will be well in time. But the others…the others are dead, Fiona.”

“
All
of them?” Fiona barely whispered, feeling the shock of what he’d said rock through her.

“Aye, lady. I am sorry for it, but it is so. Your brother and Rufus will see their bodies safely back to the settlement, and so there is no reason that we cannot stay here as long as you need. I want to help you, Fiona.”

“There is nothing you can do, Braedan,” she said hoarsely, clenching her fist over her middle and trying to force back the tide of pain. “…nothing you can do for me.”

“I don’t believe that, and neither should you. I know that seeing Draven again upset you, but he is—”

“Upset me?” she broke in, choking out a bitter laugh. “Nay, for the past three years the thought of what just happened back there has
defined
me. I have lived my life
during all that time doing my best to avoid him entirely, dressing in disguise, using another name, moving away from everyone and everything I knew. And for what? Here I am today with three men needlessly dead because of me, and with no better prospect for my future than was true the night I escaped him. It is even worse, perhaps, in that his twisted obsession with me has only been whetted by my absence.”

“He cannot control you if you don’t let him.”

She swallowed another dark laugh, the urge suddenly rising up in her to give release to the tears she was trying her best not to shed in front of Braedan. She looked over at him, standing there so strong and resolute, within a few paces of her and yet allowing her to keep whatever distance pleased her—always the gentle warrior concerned with her comfort, her feelings. Hurt welled up again, the irony of it all thick in her chest. Oh, if only he knew. But he couldn’t. Not unless she told him all of it, and that would mean exposing herself to the possibility of more pain.

“You don’t understand, Braedan,” she said haltingly, glancing up at him, her eyes feeling swollen and her insides empty and aching. “It is more than you could possibly realize.”

“Tell me, then.”

“I cannot. It is too complicated.” She squeezed her eyes shut, knowing she couldn’t bear the look of denial, the disgust she was afraid she would see in his eyes if she told him the whole truth of her history with Draven.

“Weeks ago, I said that I would listen without judgment if you spoke of your past,” he said, as if he’d read her thoughts. “I am still willing to listen, Fiona. Right
now, if only you’ll trust me with it, so that I can understand.”

She opened her eyes, then, though she didn’t allow herself to meet his gaze or the tenderness she knew would be there. Braedan de Cantor was a powerful man, a man capable of great violence if need be; she’d seen that with her own eyes today. And yet he was always so tender with her—with her, the celebrated courtesan, who had known many things from many men, but never such consideration and care. Oh, God, if she could only unburden her heart and soul of all the hurt and the vile memories. But she was too frightened of what he might think of her when it was done…

“
Trust
me, Fiona.”

That quietly spoken plea battered down the last of her defense more effectively than a hundred commands could have done, and with a long, hitched breath, she lifted her gaze to his. “It is so ugly, Braedan.” She hesitated, troubled by the swell of it all inside her. Her jaw felt stiff, and her eyes burned as she continued, “Back there, when Draven touched me, when he laid claim to me again, it was like he had never let go…like all of that time I’d been gone and struggling to make myself free hadn’t mattered. He was in control, and I—I couldn’t even speak to deny him. I was weak and afraid, and I hated myself for it, almost as much as I hated him.”

“You were shocked to see him. You cannot blame yourself for that.”

“I should have been stronger, but he knew…oh, Braedan, he knows me so well. Heaven help me, but he made me what I am, and I will never be able to escape it!”

“And what exactly
are
you that is so terrible, Fiona?”
Braedan demanded, stalking over, close to her then, forcing her to look at him. “What in your mind is so awful that you must condemn yourself to a lifetime of confinement, in your heart or in truth, with Draven as your keeper?”

“Don’t you see?” she cried, the pain rising up to overwhelm her, “I am his possession, something to use or discard as he sees fit; that is all.”

He shook his head in denial, but she continued, driven by the horrible memories filling her that erased all else but the anguish left behind. Swallowing, she met his gaze, swiping at her eyes as she said, “You have to understand how it was…Draven created me. He molded me into the temptation he’d envisioned from the moment he’d laid eyes on me, purchasing me outright from my mother for that purpose when I was fifteen—a wretched, starving girl like hundreds of others who live on the streets of London.”

“Your mother
sold
you to him?” Braedan murmured in disbelief. “My God…”

Fiona shook her head, not wanting to relive the betrayal that memory called up in her; over the years its power had become more muted, but it could still burn if she was careless. In her mind she knew that her mother had been trying to open the way to a better life for her when she gave her over, but her heart did not recognize the distinction and likely never would.

“Draven was a master of many things, not the least of which was persuasion,” she continued. “He had seen me at the market fair that autumn and had begun to ask questions about me. Before long, one of his men followed my mother to the
stewes
, where she rented a chamber in a broken-down hovel for her work. With the
lure of a few gold coins and some talk of betterment for me, she was eventually convinced to give me over. It was the beginning of winter, and I was grateful for the warmth and shelter my new position would provide. I thought I was to begin work as a scullery girl, you see,” she whispered, looking at Braedan, unblinking.

Even though she was doing her best to stem the tide, the old feelings of shock and powerlessness were coming back to grip her. “Once Draven had me secured at Chepston, he ordered that I be bathed, fed, and garbed in costly robes, and then I was taken to his chamber, where he slowly and surely set about taking my innocence.”

Braedan cursed under his breath then, his face troubled and his eyes showing, as always, the swirl of emotions in their depths. She shook her head and pulled away from his sympathy, unable to bear such tenderness while she was so locked into the memories of that dark time.

“It was clear that Draven enjoyed the act of seducing me,” she continued woodenly. “I was young and still untouched; I suppose that surprised him, considering the conditions of my life up until then, but as such I presented him a challenge. I unwittingly made it worse by resisting him until he could think of nothing but taming me. He did so, eventually, breaking my will to his and training me to master the performance of many carnal acts. He interspersed those lessons with instruction on behaving and speaking like a true lady, saying it provided an interesting contrast to the extravagance of my skills in the bedchamber.”

Fiona stopped for a moment, her throat aching in her effort not to let loose the remembered panic and despair that battered at her from within. She swallowed.
“Draven was obsessed with me, though in my ignorance of such things I could not give a name to what was happening. I only knew that it left me feeling confused and lost. With every breath I took I hated him more for it, and I told him so, over and over. But it didn’t matter. He would only smile and then take me to his chamber again, destroying me a little more with each act. Before long I came to realize that nothing mattered but Draven’s needs…his plans for me.”

She pulled back, her gaze searching Braedan’s almost wildly. “Do you see now?” she whispered, “Draven brought me under his power, then he made certain I could never, ever be free of him, no matter what I did or how far I managed to go from him. I cannot escape him because he is
inside
of me, lurking there always, like a serpent waiting to strike. I thought I could separate myself from him. I tried to live my life free and independent of his influence on me, but I cannot. Seeing him again today, hearing his threats reminded me how foolish I have been to believe I could.”

Braedan was silent after she’d finished, the look on his face so pained that it shamed her more, almost, than the telling of her past had. She squirmed under his gaze, waiting for the rejection she knew must be imminent. “You understand, then,” she said, her voice nearly cracking with the strain, “You accept that I cannot be the woman you think I am, no matter how I try to convince the world or myself otherwise. With or without the scarlet gowns, at the core I am naught but Draven’s creation—Giselle de Coeur, the Crimson Lady. It is all I am and all I ever can be.”

“Nay, Fiona,” Braedan answered after his long silence, his expression intense upon her. “You are much,
much more to everyone—more to
me
. And I understand one thing all too well: My uncle is a bastard for what he did to you. You own no blame in it and should cut him from your heart and mind like the pestilence that he is.”

His response took her by surprise, so much so that she actually ceased breathing for a moment. It couldn’t be. He was talking as if he couldn’t yet see her weakness or the lasting power Draven had over her. Desperate to make him recognize the truth of what she’d spoken, she uttered a little cry and yanked at the neckline of her kirtle, exposing the area just above her breast…the ugly, heart-shaped scar Draven had carved into her before she’d escaped him four years ago.

“Look, Braedan. Here is proof of what I am saying. It is your uncle’s mark upon me, branding me forever as his. He did this to me himself, cutting into me the image of the heart he claimed I didn’t possess—the one thing I refused to give him.”

The kindness that had filled Braedan’s eyes darkened at the sight of the scar. He stroked his fingertip gently over it before lifting his hand to her cheek; but when it seemed as if he would speak again, she pressed her fingers gently to his lips, trying to silence him, knowing that no matter what he said, it couldn’t change anything or take away the horrible feeling inside her.

But he wouldn’t be stilled. Taking hold of her hand, he kissed her fingers before pulling them away to speak very deliberately. “Draven does not own you, Fiona. He is but
one
man, not a god or a demon, even, for all the evil in his soul. He deserves no more importance in your life or your memory than any of the other animals pretending to be men that you were forced to bed during your years as the Crimson Lady.”

Her brows came together in bewilderment for an instant before the unwitting falsehood of his argument washed over her. A rusty laugh broke from her at this final insult—at this last truth that she’d been doing her best to avoid telling him. She closed her eyes, sucking in her breath. Her mouth twisted with the effort it was taking to hold back her emotions, but though she’d sworn she wouldn’t cry, tears seeped from between her lashes nonetheless, to roll down her cheeks. “Ah, Braedan, there is no way you could know…but as much as I wish to, I cannot make happen what you’re saying,” she said huskily. “Of all things, that is utterly impossible for me to do.”