The Prince Kidnaps a Bride (26 page)

So what?

All that mattered was who drew last blood.

He heard the murmurs of disapproval from the crowd. No doubt Count duBelle heard them, too. So Rainger smiled, a slight lift of the lips.

Count duBelle’s eyes widened for one betraying second of shock, then slid almost shut as he tried to hide his blast of enmity.

He hated Rainger, hated him beyond all reason. Hated him for surviving. Hated him for being. And feared him for his legitimate claim to the throne.

Rainger allowed his smile to widen. Enmity and fear. Good signs. Even better that Count duBelle couldn’t hide his feelings. That showed a loss of control.

Blood trickled down Rainger’s arm. He noted a numbing in his fingers. He tossed the sword to his other hand. “Come, my man. While you’ve been practicing your swordsmanship, I’ve been wandering the world in search of my princess. And... something else. What was it I was doing? Ah, that’s right. Being beaten with your cane and rotting in your dungeon.”

“You’ll rot in your grave when I’m done with you.”

Sorcha flinched at Count duBelle’s cruel words, then flinched again as, without warning, his sword rippled toward Rainger.

But Rainger skillfully parried. He grinned and said, “You’re right, of course.
En garde
is such an old-fashioned turn of phrase.”

She should have been glad he had the wit and confidence to jest... but she wanted him to stop talking and
fight
. He had to win. Not because of their wretched countries and their thrones and their crowns, but because beneath the tangled knot of her resentment and distrust lay a bedrock of love so intense she could scarcely stand to watch—yet couldn’t turn her gaze away.

As the swords flashed in the dappled sunlight, she winced, faltered, recoiled with each stroke. Her breath quickened as if she were fighting. Inside her chest her heart ached with its frantic beating.

“You can’t keep this up.” Count duBelle panted as he spoke. “You’re losing blood.”

“True,” Rainger agreed.

In a move so swift Sorcha’s gaze couldn’t follow, Rainger slipped past Count duBelle’s guard—and slashed his cheek to the corner of his mouth.

The men muttered, the women whimpered. Julienne screamed as the skin sagged to show the white of his teeth.

Sorcha grinned with savage satisfaction. She felt no pity for Count duBelle. For the pain and death he’d caused, if she could, she would kill him herself.

“There. Now you’re losing blood, too.” Rainger held his sword at the ready while with his fingers Count duBelle explored the injury.

“You worthless royal whelp!” Count duBelle’s voice sounded odd, as if he couldn’t articulate well. “You’ve mutilated me.”

The swords clashed again.

Again Rainger’s sword flashed.

Count duBelle parried, but blood blossomed on his other cheek. He stumbled backward.

Again Rainger stopped and stood waiting. “There. That must improve your mood. Both sides match.”

Count duBelle turned to glance at his wife. At the sight of his face, now a death’s head, Julienne’s beautiful big eyes grew large and horrified. She clapped her hand to her mouth, turned away, and vomited.

When Count duBelle turned back to Rainger, his gaze was lethal. He leaped into the fight with a searing array of strokes so swift his steel blazed with fury.

Rainger might have learned to fight like that once, but it had been so long. Since then, he’d been wandering the world in search of... Sorcha.

Yet Rainger’s sword leaped to answer Count duBelle’s challenge.

Beside her, someone lightly touched Sorcha’s arm. In a low, warm voice, a woman said, “Rainger’s probably not as good a swordsman as Count duBelle, but he’s showing a remarkable ability to shake him.”

Sorcha remembered one of Grandmamma’s axioms. “The prisoner comes to know his jailer’s fears as well as the jailer knows his prisoner’s anguish.”

On her other side, Sorcha felt another light touch. “Rainger is pacing himself quite well. He’s not allowing Count duBelle to push him into rapid swordplay.”

“Now you can see the difference between youth and experience,” the first voice said. “Count duBelle is sweating like the pig he is.”

The voices seemed vaguely familiar, but right now Sorcha didn’t care. She couldn’t look at these women. She needed to keep all of her concentration on Rainger. She couldn’t blink. She wanted somehow to
help
, yet she was only a spectator.

One of the women at her side slid her hand through Sorcha’s arm. “Rainger won’t lose. He’s fighting for you.”

The assurance simply annoyed Sorcha. The distraction made her want to shriek. Couldn’t these women see what was happening? See the silver swords flashing through the air, the sunlight glinting on the points, the blood oozing from Rainger’s wound, the death’s-head horror that was Count duBelle? The clash of steel against steel filled Sorcha’s mind. Didn’t these women realize Rainger could
die
? Sharply, she said, “He’s fighting for his
life
.”

On her other side, the second woman hugged her. In a soothing tone, she said, “Yes, of course he is. His life, his country, and his love.”

“His love will give him strength,” the first woman said.

He didn’t love Sorcha, but if love would give him strength, then she had enough for the both of them.

She took her first unrestricted breath and accepted the two women’s comfort.

And before her, Count duBelle’s sword work took on a new intensity.

Rainger had begun to falter.

Rainger’s chest heaved with the effort, and time and time again he barely brought up the sword to defend himself.

Count duBelle showed the technique he had honed through years of practice. His pale eyes flashed with malevolence as he drove Rainger ever backward.

Sorcha heard the calls start—calls for Count duBelle to finish the job, and quieter calls for Rainger to hold on, to win. She wanted to call to Rainger, also, but her mouth was too dry, her anguish too violent.

Count duBelle drove Rainger toward the barren edge of rock, toward the drop into the meadow, toward the trap he’d prepared for him. Count duBelle panted, but still he smiled as he said, “You
are
going to die where I tell you.”

Rainger’s foot slipped out from underneath him. He went down on one knee.

Count duBelle lifted his sword for the deathblow.

And in a move so quick Sorcha’s eye couldn’t follow, Rainger brought the point of his sword up under Count duBelle’s guard. Under his rib cage and into his chest.

Count duBelle teetered, hanging on Rainger’s sword, a ludicrous expression of surprise on his face.

“No,” Rainger said to him, “I’m not.” Jerking his blade free, he swept his arm under Count duBelle’s knees and toppled him into the grave.

S
lowly, painfully, Rainger stood, turned. He looked down the slope at the body of his enemy.

All around the clearing, no one moved, no one breathed.

For years, in darkness and in light, he’d imagined, anticipated this moment. He had planned each move, each thrust, each parry. He’d thought he would experience glee.

Instead he felt nothing but the satisfaction of a job well done. A job long overdue.

One fellow shouted, “He did it!”

As if those words were the trigger, pandemonium broke forth. Women shrieked, men yelled.

Rainger faced the crowd.

Some of Count duBelle’s well-dressed, overfed supporters slipped backward into the crowd. Rainger nodded to his men to let them go.

Yet genuine joy lit more faces than he had imagined. More than one supporter, more than one of Count duBelle’s guard, had genuinely hated him.

Rainger had planned a thousand stirring speeches to the cheering multitude.

Instead he wanted to speak only a few heartfelt words to one woman.

He searched for her face, needing to see that she was healthy, see if she was pleased that he had vanquished Count duBelle. Pleased that he was alive.

He found her at once, her beloved face pale, her glorious eyes wide, her expression deceptively still.

What did she think? What did she feel?

He hadn’t known her since the day she’d discovered his deception, since the day he’d told her his plans, given her his mandate, and demanded her cooperation. Since that day, she’d given him just what he required—and nothing of what he wanted.

He knew what he had to do.

As he strode toward her, Sorcha wanted to run to him. To scream her joy. To throw herself at him, to hug him, to kiss him.

But he wanted a queen, not a wife.

So she held herself still, waited for him to reach her. When he was close enough, she held out her hand and said, “Well done, my lord.” Her voice trembled in a most unqueenly manner, and carefully she corrected it. “I never doubted you would triumph.”

But he... he didn’t act like a king at all.

He acted like a man.

He caught her in his arms, embracing her as if she were his dearest possession. As if he were desperate to hold her. In a voice choked with emotion, he whispered, “Dear God, I was so afraid the bastard had killed you. Hurt you. Did he?”

Shocked by his tempestuous outburst, she shook her head.

“When I saw you standing here, all my prayers were answered and I knew... I
knew
I would prevail. For you. Because I had to live for you. With you.” He took one step away. He caught her face in his hands. He looked down at her, his dark eyes alight with something that looked like... if she were a fanciful woman, she would say it was...

“I love you.” Before she could catch her breath, he knelt gracefully before her. “When I crawled out of that dungeon, I swore two solemn vows. I swore I’d come back and kill Count duBelle, and I swore I’d never again kneel before another soul. But some vows are made for good reason, and some are made for pride. Thank God, you showed me the difference.”

“Rainger... ” Her hands shook in his. She should stop him
now
.

He was wounded. He was bleeding. He should be cared for.

More important, a man who would be king should never humble himself at the moment of his triumph. Not in front of all these people. Grandmamma would be appalled at him—and appalled at Sorcha for not stopping him.

Yet Sorcha couldn’t bring herself to do the right thing. She wanted to see Rainger humble—before her. She wanted to hear him beg—for her forgiveness. She wanted to hear him say it again—
I love you.

Had she imagined it? Would he... would he tell her again?

“For eight years, I lived in darkness. The only light I had was the memory of your face. I remembered the way you pouted when I teased you, the sound of your laughter when I joked. I reviewed every glance from your eyes, the sway of your walk, the way you grew from child to woman.”

“You thought of me while you were in prison?”

“Every day.” His dark eyes glowed as he told her the truth at last. “So on the day we wed, I swore another stupid vow. I swore I’d never tell you.”

“Why?” She wiped her thumb across the smudge on his cheek.

“Because what I feel for you is so strong, I feared you’d
force
me to kneel before you.”

Her thumb hovered above his skin. “I would never do that.”

“I know.” He didn’t take his gaze from her. “But I’ve known women who would.”

Julienne. He was speaking of Julienne.

“I am not one of those women.” And she did
not
appreciate the comparison.

“I know you aren’t. I knew it then, but I... I was afraid.” He was pale. Sweat beaded his forehead.

She
had
to stop him before he fainted from loss of blood.

But he must have read her mind, for he squeezed her hands. “Let me. You need this. If something happens to me, you’ll be queen and everyone must know where you stand in my regard.”

The glowing ember of her hope cooled. “You’re doing this to guard my position in case your wound kills you?”

“In part.”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t worry that your wound will kill you.” Her words were cordial. Her tone was not.

He laughed. Not laughed, really. It was more of a painful chortle, and he shook his head. “No, you misunderstand. I would protect you in case of my death, yes. But I could accomplish that easily enough without the effort—the agony—of prostrating myself before you. I’m doing this because... because you need to know. Because just once I need to tell you... I can’t live without you. When I discovered you’d been taken, I realized you didn’t know the most important thing about me.” He glanced around. Slowly he came to his feet. “Can we walk a little?”

“Of course.” As he took her arm, curiosity prodded her. He’d said so much in front of so many. What did he wish to keep private?

He led her away from the crowd, walking slowly and leaning on her as if he needed the support—as if he knew he could depend on her to support him. He stopped by the trees and in a low voice, he said, “I need to tell you about what happened in Count duBelle’s dungeon.”

She didn’t know if Rainger would consider the fact that they’d discussed him as a betrayal, but she confessed, “Marlon told me.”

“Good. But Marlon didn’t tell you the most important part. He didn’t know. No one knows except me—and you.”

“Me?” Rainger was being cryptic and that was quite unlike him. “What do you mean?”

“For eight years, I lived in dark and the cold and the damp, and the seventh year, I broke. I begged and I pleaded that Count duBelle give me my life and my health and my freedom. Worthless. Useless. Of course.” Rainger’s mouth curled bitterly. “Marlon despised me, but it was nothing compared to the way I despised myself. For the year after, I hated myself with such virulence I didn’t care if I lived or died. I had betrayed my family, my father—you!”

“Not me.”

“Only because I’d been so spoiled and ineffectual you had no expectations of me. But in my mind, I had betrayed you. I lay in the darkness and gradually I reached a place beyond fear. When I was taken and beaten the next year, Count duBelle couldn’t break me. He tried. He tried to kill me, and when the guards put me back in my cell, I knew he had succeeded. The life oozed from me—from wounds on my back, but from also my spirit and my heart.”

Rainger spoke in such a solemn tone, watched her so intently, that the hair rose on the back of her neck.

“When there was no hope that I would live, the guards carried me into the other cell to expire with my friends around me.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “In the dark, it was easy to welcome death.”

“So you did die.” She knew he had. She knew this story.

“I definitely did. I remember everything about it. The air was foul. The indifferent stones closed in around me. No voices disturbed the silence. No hand could bind my wounds or cure my pain.” Softly, he asked, “Do you remember, Sorcha?”

Yes. She remembered. She remembered the dream as vividly as the night she’d dreamt it. “The bones of rats were my bed and the long drape of cobwebs my blanket,” she murmured.

He took up the tale again. “Somewhere close, water seeped into a pool, and the slow drip which had once driven me mad now meant nothing. My world was sorrow and loneliness. I knew I was dying, and I welcomed the end of desolation, of grief, of anguish. I reached out and touched the skeletal hand of Death—and I slipped beyond.”

Sorcha’s eyes swam with tears. She could barely stand to hear the story, relive the story with him.

Rainger grasped both of her hands. He looked into her eyes. “I saw a cross. It gleamed like a blue coal. I couldn’t resist. I had to touch it. When I did, it burned me. I realized it hung around a woman’s neck—and with a gasp, I returned to excruciating, painful life.”

Sorcha saw in him the memory they shared. She said, “And the first light of dawn shone in my cell, and the first seabird called its high, sweet call outside my window.”

“It
was
you, my darling.” He smiled, a slow, sweet, powerful smile. He kissed her fingers. “I knew it was you.”

“Yes. It was me.” Bringing the cross out from beneath her neckline, she showed it to him.

“I haven’t believed in God for years. Why should I honor God with my worship when He treated me so cruelly? But now I have the evidence of God’s grace. I have you and I have your love, and all I can do is love you in return.” He showed her the mark burned into the palm of his hand. “I don’t know if that’s enough, but I hope it is.”

She put her fingers over his lips. “I don’t know if it is, either. But if you love me forever, I think it might be.”

As if he couldn’t bear not to, he kissed her. “My darling Sorcha, no matter what happens, you have more help than you can imagine. Have you not noticed who stands behind us?”

She wrenched her attention away from Rainger, to the two women who had steadied her during the fight.

Blond. Petite. Curvaceous.

Brunette. A surprising height. Slender.

Both dressed in a modified soldier’s gear. They were familiar. So familiar.

“Clarice? Amy?” Sorcha woke from the long dream of loneliness and unspoken fear.

“Sorcha.” They spoke together. They rushed at her.

She laughed and she cried as they embraced fervently and spoke in broken sentences, trying to explain ten years in a moment.

Clarice told her news. Amy told hers.

“A boy?” Sorcha said to Amy. “A girl!” She said to Clarice.

Glancing up, she saw Rainger standing with two other men, watching with a gleam of satisfaction.

“Excuse me.” She kissed her sisters. “Excuse me.”

She returned to Rainger. She took his hand. “Did you bring them here for me?”

“As soon as we got to Beaumontagne, I sent a special courier and invited them. They had to wait until spring, but—”

“You are so good to me! So smart and wonderful! How can I ever repay you?”

She found herself in his arms before she could react. He bent her back and kissed her. No art. No finesse. Just glorious passion and burning excitement.

He swept her along, feeding her heat and love and need.

And she wrapped her hands around his head and answered him, tasting him, relishing him, giving him everything in her soul—because she had to. Because they were one.