Lord of Vengeance Page 13

  “Hardly,” Raina scoffed, plunking the trencher down on the table and turning to quit the hall.

  From behind her, Rutledge cleared his throat. “I've not yet granted you leave; where do you think to go?”

  Pivoting on her heel, she fixed a scathing glare on him and gestured around her. “I'm certain there are others here who wish to eat. Agnes sent me with directions to return once you had your meal so I might assist her with the other trays.”

  “Agnes can manage without your assistance. You will stay and tend your lord.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “Is that not your squire's duty?”

  “He is elsewise occupied. Tonight, 'tis your duty.”

  “I have brought you your meal, what more do you require? Must I now feed you as well?”

  His brows quirked in interest. “An intriguing suggestion,” he said, but then he winced, reaching over his shoulder to scratch feverishly at an unseen itch. “What the devil?” he grumbled, now plunging his hand into the unlaced neckline of his tunic and scratching as if to draw blood.

  “Fleas, my lord?” Raina suggested, trying unsuccessfully to keep the glee from her voice.

  He shot her a perturbed scowl, but his expression softened with a flash of momentary puzzlement. His hand still obscured within his tunic, he stopped scratching suddenly and his face darkened with dawning comprehension. Very slowly, he withdrew his hand and, pinched between his forefinger and thumb, was a wilted nettle leaf. Eyes narrowed, he held the little discovery up for Raina's consideration. “Now, how do you suppose this got in my tunic?”

  She shrugged lamely, trying not to laugh at his discomfort. “Perhaps the fleas put it there?”

  “Indeed.” He let the leaf flutter to the floor at his feet. “Perhaps the smug little flea standing before me ought to come up here and scratch my back.”

  Raina gulped, unsure what alarmed her more: the thought of touching him or the idea that she would have to do so in front of the entire keep. “I don't think--”

  “Mayhap next time, you will,” he interjected with a wry smile. “And it wasn't a suggestion, lamb. Come up here.”

  With hesitant feet, she climbed the two steps of the raised platform and stood, fists clenched, at Rutledge's side. He began eating his meal, seemingly more interested in the roasted chicken than in her or her discomfiture. No one in the hall appeared to take notice either, everyone talking and feasting and paying no mind to the dais.

  “Go on,” Rutledge directed her with a nod of his head.

  Scandalized at the thought of placing her hands on any part of him, Raina reluctantly complied, taking her place behind him and unable to do more than stare at the wide expanse of his back and shoulders, unsure how to begin. She flexed her tired fingers, took a deep breath and placed her hands lightly on his shoulders.

  She thought he might have flinched, but she could not be sure, for the jolt she experienced upon feeling his tight muscles beneath her palms took the breath right out of her and left her heart fluttering in her throat.

  At first she couldn't move and just stood there with her hands resting on those thick, hard shoulders as he bent down to his trencher, eating and drinking and apparently oblivious of the maelstrom of new and fascinating sensations she was weathering at his back.

  Never had she felt such power, such masculine strength. Even with her hands spread wide, she couldn't span the width of his shoulders. Over the rough linen of his tunic, she squeezed the thick muscles, testing their strength and marveling at the ridges and valleys that formed with his slightest move. He made a low, rumbling sound in the back of his throat as she scratched and kneaded his shoulders, exhaling a deep breath that seemed to release some of the tension she felt within him.

  Oddly pleased with that idea, she let her thumbs trace the column of his neck, scarcely resisting the urge to plunge her fingers into his glossy, dark hair which fell in waves about his ears and tickled the collar of his tunic. She noticed idly that he had abandoned his supper and now reclined quietly in his chair, his head dipped forward, arms spread wide, hands fisted and braced against the edge of the table while she continued her ministrations.

  Before long, however, the tension seemed to creep back into his muscles, and she wondered if she had been doing something wrong, for his wide back now rose and fell with breathing that had become heavy, a certain tautness seeming to come over his entire being.

  “Don't stop,” he rasped when her hands stilled at his shoulders. But she couldn't move, not even to remove her hands from him.

  Something had changed; she could feel it in herself as surely as she felt it in him. From the moment she touched him, she was no longer a prisoner begrudgingly carrying out an order, but a woman willingly caressing--and aye, desiring--a man.

  She could not deny it, and heaven help her, but he was surely aware as well, for when his large hands reached up and curled around her wrists, she could do naught but sigh, a ragged, wanton sound that he echoed with a low, rumbling moan.

  With precious little effort, he pulled her against him, the back of his head pressing into her belly as he dragged her hands down, over his shoulders, inside his tunic. Of their own accord, her fingers splayed the firm, muscular disks of his chest, wading through the mat of soft hair, his nipples hard as pebbles against her palms. She squeezed her eyes closed, desperate to shut out the keen ripple of pleasure, the fervent lure of curiosity that made her yearn to venture lower, to the flat plane of his abdomen and--heaven help her--lower still.

  “Oh, please, nay,” she whispered, and made to pull away from him, but Rutledge caught her hands, pivoting in his chair to face her, his eyes hooded and darker than she had ever seen them, his full lips set in a grim line, his nostrils flaring with breath that came hot against her skin. “Please, release me,” she gasped.

  “Is that truly what you want, my lamb?” he asked, his eyes smoldering with dangerous promise. She nodded and made a feeble attempt to extract her hands from his grasp. “Nay,” he challenged. “I don't think you want me to release you at all. Your lips may deny me, but your eyes speak the truth. As do these delicate, gentle fingers.”

  He glanced down to where their hands were joined--and he stilled.

  The warmth and passion she had seen in his eyes just a moment before evaporated like dew under the blaze of the hot sun and his expression steeled. As did his grip on her hands. He scowled. “Where did you get that?”

  Confused by this swift change in his demeanor and the sudden flatness of his voice, Raina looked to the new focus of his attention. The ring on the third finger of her right hand twinkled in the light of the hall, the dark ruby in its center alive with bloodred fire.

  “Where did you get it?”

  Raina jumped at the heavy boom of his voice. “M-my father gave it to me,” she stammered quickly. “'Tis a family heirloom.”

  “Take it off,” he commanded.

  She shook her head, refusing to part with the token she had cherished for so long, the ring her father had given her on her sixteenth birthday.

  “I said, take it off.”

  Inwardly cursing him and his bullying ways, Raina pulled the beloved memento from her finger and shakily extended it to him in her palm. He snatched it up, holding the ring between his thumb and forefinger and staring at it with quiet intensity. “A family heirloom, you say?”

  “Aye, my lord,” she replied warily, not trusting the odd calm that had come over him.

  Rutledge chuckled then, a bitter sound, lacking any humor. “Doubtless your father neglected to tell you whose family.” The ring disappeared into his fist. “Now get out of my hall and leave me alone.”

  Raina hesitated. “But my ring--”

  Rutledge ignored her, snapping his fingers to beckon a guard to his side. “Take her up to her cell.”

  “My ring,” she croaked. “Give it back to me.”

  But Rutledge paid her no mind. The burly guard clutched her elbow and gave it a tug, prepared to drag her off the
dais if he must. She dug in her heels, pulling against the guard's hold and glaring at Rutledge's impassive countenance, nearly spitting with anger.

  “All your bluster about honor and righting wrongs is a lie,” she charged. “You've accused my father of stealing and murder and cruelty, but how are you any better? You are naught but a petty thief. A bullying coward. Piteous fraud!”

  * * *

  A pall of silence cloaked the hall as the guard led Raina, thrashing and raging, away from the gathering.

  No one said a word.

  All eyes turned expectantly to Gunnar, who, to all appearances remained unmoved, looking completely unfazed as he drained the last of his ale and set the cup down on the table with a soft thud.

  Only he knew the torrent raging within him. Only he knew the constant battle he fought inside himself, the desperate conflict that left him torn between wanting Raina and wanting her gone.

  She was right, of course. He was a thief. Everything he had acquired in this life had once belonged to someone else, from his sword and armor won by tournament ransom, to the abandoned keep that sheltered him, and the stores he had recently filled with goods taken from d'Bussy's holdings.

  Now he had stooped to stealing a man's daughter. An innocent maiden who, if he were half the beast he knew himself to be, stood to lose far more to him than just a cherished bit of jewelry.

  To the charge of coward he plead guilty as well, though he reckoned no one, save the hellion abovestairs--and his own damning conscience--would dare to call him so now. He'd spent more than a dozen years trying to expunge the shame of having fled his parents' murderer rather than fight him, punishing his body with hard, physical labor and countless battles. Disciplining his mind to thoughts of war and vengeance and girding his heart against the weakness of feelings.

  He had earned a reputation for fearlessness and ferocity that few had risen to challenge--all in preparation for one man, one meeting. But until d'Bussy was no more, Gunnar suspected that inside, where it mattered, he was forever doomed to be that cowardly boy.

  And a fraud? Aye, he was. A fraud of the worst degree, for he'd been trying to convince himself from the moment he laid eyes on d'Bussy's daughter that she did not affect him in some deep, primeval way.

  Jesu, but he could still feel her hands on him, her slender fingers exploring and caressing him, she unaware of what her innocent ministrations had done to him.

  The idea that she'd found pleasure in touching him had surprised him infinitely, rendered him stiff and near senseless with want, burning to show her what real pleasure was. How he would survive more than a sennight in her presence without giving in to that desire, he knew not.

  But if he needed a reminder of why he could not have her, a warning to uphold his vow of vengeance, he had surely gotten it this eve.

  Clutching the tiny ring so tightly in his fist that it bit into his palm, Gunnar filled his cup, steeling himself against the urge to chase up the stairs after Raina to claim her as his price and vengeance be damned.

  Chapter 11

  Hours had passed since Raina had been taken away from the hall and locked in her chamber. A young maid named Dorcas brought a tray of food that now sat in the corner, half-eaten. Raina couldn't think about food, she could hardly appreciate the fresh pallet beneath her or the dying fire in the hearth--both, she suspected, courtesy of the kind-hearted Dorcas.

  Raina's thoughts were yet on Rutledge and his unpredictable moods, his maddening and frequent turns from man to beast. Whatever had occurred between them in the hall had left her trembling and bewildered, and his angry, cryptic response at spying her ring only furthered her confusion.

  Curse him! Never had she been more unsure of herself or her own feelings. In a matter of days, Rutledge had managed to make her at once like him, hate him, respect him, fear him...and aye, desire him.

  But it could go no further than that, and he could never know what he made her feel; she could not allow it. It seemed clear that the only true way to escape her traitorous thoughts was to escape his keep. A hopeless goal if ever there was one, she thought, and burst into tears all over again.

  Even though Rutledge saw no need to post a guard outside her door, the lock bar was set and she was trapped well and good within. She had already checked the height of the chamber window and ruled it out as a means of safe escape. All she could hope for was a miracle, a wish that God might take pity on her and send her a deliverer.

  And then, the answer came--a soft tapping on her door, so faint she nearly didn't hear it through her sobs. It came again, louder this time and followed by an adolescent voice she had now come to recognize.

  “Milady, are you all right?”

  Alaric's concerned whisper drifted into the semi-darkness; the lock bar began to slide slowly out of its sleeve.

  Raina sniffed and sat up on her pallet, wiping her tangled hair away from her eyes. As the metal grated softly on the other side of the door, her heart gave a little leap.

  He meant to come in.

  While her mind raced to form a plan, her body sprang into action. Snatching her empty chamber pot as a weapon, she flattened herself against the wall behind the door. She truly hated to hurt him, but hers was not the only life at stake and she hoped he would understand.

  The old leather hinges creaked as Alaric pushed the door open a crack. “Lady Raina?” he whispered as his head peered into the darkness. He moved farther into the room. “Please, answer me milady, are you unwell?”

  He likely heard her whispered plea for forgiveness, for he started to turn his head toward where she stood with the chamber pot raised high above her head, but he hadn't the chance to utter a sound before she brought it down on him with a resounding bong. Alaric crumpled to the floor in a heap of gangly arms and legs.

  Working quickly, Raina cast the dented pot to the floor and pulled him into the chamber lest he be discovered before she had a chance to make her escape.

  She dragged the limp squire to her pallet and rested his head on her pillow, trying to provide for his comfort in some small way. He looked to be sleeping so blissfully that for an instant she feared she might have killed him. She hesitated, pressing her palm to his cheek. Thank the saints, it was warm. He moaned suddenly and she nearly jumped out of her skin, vaulting to her feet.

  Raina slipped out into the corridor and closed the chamber door behind her, quietly sliding the lock bar into place. With her heart pounding wildly in her breast, she fled down the empty hallway and descended the spiraling stairwell, creeping along the corridor wall toward the entry of the hall. There she stilled, listening for activity from within the sleeping quarters of Rutledge's men. Save for some heavy snoring, blessedly, all was quiet.

  She peeked around the edge and a movement in the far corner caused her heart to trip, but it was just Odette, stealing away from her lover while he slept on his pallet. Lifting her skirts so she might run unencumbered, Raina dashed on, past the hall and down the corridor that led to the bailey and freedom. She crossed the small courtyard, dodging puddles from a recent rain with only the moon to guide her. She reached the interior of the curtain wall, sidling along it until she found the stairs leading up to the wall-walk.

  Three guards armed with crossbows stood at the farthest parapet, engrossed in friendly conversation. There was no possibility of getting past the gate on foot; her only hope was to jump from atop the wall and pray she landed safely on the other side. Raina chewed her bottom lip as she climbed the steep stone steps, moving quietly and slowly as she dared, so as not to attract the guards' attention.

  When she reached the top and peered over the side, her heart plummeted. Mercy, it was so very high! Though the darkness all but swallowed up the ground below, she could still discern scattered rocks and a very steep motte. The danger of breaking bones upon landing below was only worsened by the thought of rolling down that hill. Hers was a risky venture, to say the least. She glanced nervously over her shoulder at the guards.

  It was also he
r only hope.

  Without making a sound, Raina climbed onto the ledge of the wall-walk and, on her belly, clutching the rough stone of the embrasure, she carefully slid her legs over the side of the wall. The chill night air lifted her skirts, exposing her bare legs and making her question the wisdom of her hasty plan. If she landed carelessly, she would likely be torn to ribbons. An image of herself lifeless and lying broken on the rocks sprang unbidden to her mind. What a tragic, heroic way to leave her life, she thought with a sudden surge of melodrama. Her father would be devastated, of course, and so very proud to learn of her courage. But what of Rutledge? she wondered. He would be furious that he'd lost his pawn, but would his feelings go beyond that?

  She had little time to ponder the question, for the stony facade she was clinging to started to crumble. A small piece broke loose from beneath her fingers, ricocheting down the sloping wall and landing below. From the area of the battlements she heard the shuffling of booted feet, the murmur of voices, and then, one of the guards leaned over the edge. “The prisoner!” he called, spying her instantly. “Curse the wench, she's escaping!”

  The other guards swore, and a whistle of alarm went up, followed by the rush of footsteps drawing closer.

  Heaven help her, but there was no turning back now. Closing her eyes, Raina whispered a quick prayer, then let go of the wall.

  Her skirts filled with air as her body rushed to the ground and she landed with a bone-jarring thud. She bit her tongue as her teeth crashed together and she stumbled backward onto her rump, momentarily dazed with the impact.

  Mother Mary, she did it...and she wasn't dead!

  Shaking off her disorientation, she scrambled to her feet as a guard's voice rang out above her.