Lord of Vengeance Read online

  She didn't look so fretful now. She looked like an angel fallen from heaven who'd landed softly, blessedly, in his bed.

  Damnation. How was he ever to harden his heart to this gentle, slumbering lamb? What sort of monster would it take to look upon her with anything but tender affection, with pure and absolute reverence? To his chagrin, it seemed he was not made of that stuff.

  Insane as it felt to admit it, particularly to himself, Raina d'Bussy's virtue was safer with him now than it would be in an abbey full of octogenarian monks. A fact that had nothing to do with wine or want, but rather, fear. Fear that she would not turn him away, fear that she would feel too good in his arms and too pleasurable in his bed.

  Fear also that if he claimed her, he'd be loath to let her go when the time came to meet with her father.

  So for tonight he would content himself with sleeping beside her and for the rest of their time together, he would think no more of making love to her. Praying the time would pass quickly, he stepped inside the chamber and as gently as he could, closed the door.

  * * *

  Raina awoke, startled by the sound of the door shutting with a clunk. A heavy footstep scuffed in the rushes, dislodging something that rolled across the floor. She heard Rutledge curse under his breath and her eyes flew open, though she herself was far too alarmed to dare so much as breathe. But she didn't have to draw breath to know that he smelled of wine. Goodness, he might have even bathed in it.

  The room was dark, without even so much as the benefit of embers from a dying fire, but she knew for certain she was yet in his bed. Heaven help her, what a dolt she'd been to climb onto it even for a moment! Now she was faced with either feigning sleep and hoping he was too drunk or too chivalrous to consider molesting her, or she could throw herself from the bed before he reached her and avoid the issue entirely.

  From behind her, at the other side of the bed came the sound of his footsteps, the soft thud and slosh of a wine flagon being set on the floor. A rustle of fabric preceded the jingle of a buckle as Rutledge removed his baldric and set his sword against the wall beside the bed. She rolled over to find him facing her, pulling his tunic over his head.

  “What do you think you are doing?” she gasped.

  His reply was casual and rather tired-sounding. “Removing my clothing so I might go to bed.”

  “I can very well see that.” She sat up and scowled at him. “Cease doing so this instant!”

  “My lady?” He looked up from the task of removing his boots and frowned at her in what was certainly mock confusion.

  Though she was fully clothed in her gown and chemise, Raina felt exposed, vulnerable. She gathered up the sheet to her bosom for an added measure of security. “If you have designs on crawling into this bed to ravish me while I sleep, you are mad.”

  “Indeed, I would have to be,” he answered wryly, then added, “but 'tis my bed, and if you think a few scraps of fabric would prevent me from ravishing you if I wanted to, then you are mad.” He shot her a smug grin as she scrambled off the mattress.

  “I shall be content to sleep on the floor,” she declared, “with one eye open!”

  “You needn't trouble yourself, lamb. I have no intention of doing aught but resting my bones. It makes no difference to me where you sleep, but I should hate to stumble over you in the middle of the night should I have need of the garderobe.”

  The bed was quite comfortable and it had been days since her back had reclined on something softer than stone and a bit of straw. And the idea of him traipsing about in his bedchamber during the night was rather unsettling. Warily, she climbed back onto the mattress. “If I am to share your bed with you--to sleep--I must insist that you keep your braies on at the very least.”

  He shook his head. “I have always slept without the hindrance of clothing, and I'll do so as well this eve. You should try not to fret over it so.”

  Try not to fret over it? Good Lord, she could scarcely think of anything else. “The bolster will remain between us as a barrier, then,” she said, placing the feather pillow in the center of the large bed.

  He shrugged with apparent disinterest. “As you wish.”

  Raina stared at him helplessly as he worked to untangle a difficult knot, watching those deft fingers, her heart climbing to her throat. The tie fell loose and the fabric went slack around his hips. “For mercy's sake,” she squeaked. “Must you--must you bare yourself right here, before me?”

  He chuckled like the very devil himself and glanced up at her. “You needn't watch if you find the idea too shocking.”

  “Heathen.” With a scandalized huff she spun about, crossing her arms over her chest and angrily giving him her back. “Never have I met a more ill-mannered, uncivilized brute. Did you learn naught of honor or the decent treatment of other people in your training to be a knight?”

  The bed ropes creaked as he seated himself on the mattress. “I was knighted without training at ten-and-five,” he said evenly, “on the battlefield. My appointment had more to do with necessity than honor, and as for decent treatment of other people, well, I'll credit you, a man learns little of chivalry when he spends nearly every day of his life fighting and killing just to survive.”

  Raina scowled at the wall. She might have expected him to defend himself, to dispute her accusation or perhaps apologize for affronting her sensibility. She certainly did not expect him to reveal anything of his past. Nor did she expect the sharp, humorless chuckle that followed a moment later.

  “Chivalry and honor,” he grated from behind her, his voice full of sarcasm. “If I had not been fostered out as a page at nine years old to be schooled in those useless skills, I might have been at the tourney--might have been able to do something--when my father was slain in cold blood. Chivalry and honor were of no help to me when I was sent home to be at my mother's side as she mourned, nor did they serve any purpose when Wynbrooke was beset by fire and battering rams.”

  “Wynbrooke...” she said, realization suddenly dawning on her. She regarded him over her shoulder, turning warily and finding him leaned forward over his knees, his head braced in his hands. It was the posture of a man in pain, a man dealing with old memories, bitter and left too long out of the light. “You took me there, that first night--”

  “Aye, you saw the place--what remains of it--in all its humiliating splendor.” He would not look at her and for some reason his rigidness of both body and voice created a small but piercing ache in her breast. “Tell me,” he said, his voice rasping in the quiet chamber, “did you see any lessons in chivalry or honor in the rubble, my lady? Any basis for the decent treatment of other people in the cinders?”

  “Nay,” she admitted softly. “I did not...and I did not know--”

  “Nay, like as not, you didn't.” He turned to face her at last, his expression hard, emotionally shuttered. “So if I am less than gentle with you, if I trample your delicate sensibilities, my lady, forgive me. I'm too old and tired to embrace chivalry's edicts and likely too far gone for honor, but my word is true and you can trust me. I have no intention of ravishing you this eve or ever. Now, get in this bed and let me have some rest, will you?”

  Raina moved tentatively, tucking her legs under the bed covers and snuggling deep within. The bolster felt cool against her arm, the awkward silence stretching between them colder still.

  “You confuse me so,” she said into the darkness. “I know not whether to hate you, or--”

  Her voice caught in her throat unexpectedly. She felt such overwhelming sympathy for him, such a keen ache in her heart for what he must have suffered...what he had lost.

  But more than that, she felt something else for him. Something that traversed the chasm of pain and enmity between them, surpassing even the threat of his vengeance. It was understanding, and something stronger still.

  Something she felt almost certain had to be...love.

  “I wish I'd never met you,” she whispered, then rolled away from him onto her side.

&nb
sp; * * *

  Gunnar felt the soft tremors ripple through the mattress as she wept quietly beside him. He quelled the urge to comfort her, trying to shut her out, to gird his heart and be the man he had just claimed to be.

  Fear her? Aye, he did, more so now than ever. Because in that moment, that space between one hitching heartbeat to the next, he could envision himself holding her.

  Loving her.

  Losing her.

  And so he lay beside her in the dark, willing his arms to stay at his sides while he remained awake, not daring to move until her body stilled and her breathing deepened, and then for several hours more, cursing fate and her father for throwing them together, and damning himself for caring.

  Chapter 14

  Raina came fully awake as a shaft of sunlight caressed her cheek and warmed the length of her bare leg, which stuck out from beneath the coverlet. She knew she was in Gunnar's bed; would have known it even if she could not smell his scent all around her. She feigned a stretch to determine whether he still slept beside her and found only a cool expanse of bedding.

  She sat up then and peered about the room.

  He was gone.

  A fresh tray of food sat perched at the end of the bed and, feeling famished, she reached for a wedge of cheese. On a table across the room, a basin of clove-scented water beckoned. Gunnar had obviously taken it upon himself to see that she was fed and comfortable, and further, that she could enjoy a bit of privacy as well. Raina washed and ate, thoroughly contented and trying in vain to suppress her feelings of gratitude.

  Finished seeing to her personal needs, she had just gathered up her mending when Gunnar's voice in the bailey drew her attention, along with the sounds of men's laughter and the clash of swords, now familiar. This morning, however, it was not the usual, chaotic clattering of a dozen weapons meeting in practice, but rather the measured duet of two swords. Curious, she rose and went to the window.

  The knights had gathered in a circle watching two men spar. There was no mistaking Gunnar's large frame. He wore no mail nor helm, as did his prudent opponent. Despite the suit of mail, she recognized the lanky build of his challenger at once--Alaric.

  She was about to call out to him, to wish the lad well in triumphing over his swaggering, cocksure lord when Gunnar stripped off his tunic.

  Mother Mary, would she always be so affected by the sight of him? she wondered, spellbound, watching him move.

  With his raven hair wild about his shoulders and his strong arms effortlessly swinging the heavy blade over his head in a show of skill and form, he looked every bit the pagan warrior. His deep voice, calling out instructions to Alaric, resonated off the walls of the bailey as he parried and easily lunged out of the reach of the squire's blade.

  His massive bronzed chest and shoulders glistened in the heat of the morning sun, well-defined muscles flexing and bunching with every twist of his slim waist, each thrust of his sword a deadly testimony to his agility and strength. Alaric was no match, and it soon became clear that Gunnar was not playing to win, but to teach.

  Raina's belly fluttered at the sight of him, bare-chested and gleaming with sweat. A warmth began to spread over her and for the briefest moment, she imagined what it would be like to be trapped under all that power, to have him sweating and straining above her, rather than on the field.

  Guilt inflamed her cheeks and she quickly blinked the ridiculous notion from her mind.

  The warmth that had settled in her belly could not so easily be dismissed however, nor could she seem to tear herself away from the window and the action below.

  * * *

  Gunnar had finally agreed to spar with Alaric to assess the squire's skill with the sword. He was truly pleased to see that Alaric was progressing so well. Though his defensive skills were stronger than his offense, the boy was serious and eager to learn. His determination alone would prove to make him a promising opponent in the future.

  “Ah!” Gunnar deftly avoided a jab to his right. “I see you have been paying attention to my lessons.” Their blades clanked as he deflected the blow.

  “Aye, milord,” Alaric said, a bit breathlessly, as he regained his balance and parried Gunnar's thrust. “I am quite good, am I not?”

  “You show promise.” Gunnar smiled at the youth's overblown confidence, deliberately swiping Alaric's mail-covered arm with his sword. “Though you still have a great deal to learn,” he said as the steel blade grated against the links of the youth's protective armor. When Alaric's attention flicked to his arm, Gunnar took advantage, his blade poised at the squire's now vulnerable chest. “Never assess your damage in the midst of battle, boy. 'Tis a sure way to die.”

  “Damnation,” Alaric muttered in defeat. “Once again, milord? Please?”

  “You are a glutton for punishment.”

  “I will do better this time, milord.” Alaric removed his helm and wiped the sweat from his brow, his cheeks flushed with exertion. “I was merely warming up.”

  Gunnar laughed. “You can scarcely breathe as it is. Another bout and I wager you'll drop dead of exhaustion.”

  The knights around them laughed, egging on the light-hearted challenger. “Come now, milord. Give it a go. He'll not let up till he's flat on his arse!”

  Alaric replaced his helm and squared his shoulders, his breath becoming more steady. “I won't give up.”

  “Very well,” Gunnar relented with a smirk. He spread his feet and crouched, tossing his sword from hand to hand. “I find I am of a mind to teach you yet another lesson.”

  “What lesson is that, milord?” Alaric queried, adopting a readied battle stance.

  “A lesson,” Gunnar replied lightly, lunging forward to strike the first blow, “in humility.” The gathered knights laughed, goading Alaric on.

  The mock battle began anew as student and teacher took turns dealing and avoiding blows. Steel met steel in a rhythmic crash for several minutes before Alaric, once again huffing and puffing, retreated to his side of the small circle.

  “Do you give up?” Gunnar grinned, backing off the youth for a moment. While Alaric coughed, unable to reply, Gunnar planted the tip of his sword in the ground and leaned casually on the hilt. “Do you yield, young Alaric?”

  “Nay,” the youth wheezed, bending over to catch his breath. He stood again and raised his weapon.

  Gunnar readied his stance. “I must say, what you lack in sense, you more than make up for in fortitude.”

  Alaric charged his lord, who dashed out of his path at the last moment, sending the youth stumbling forward nearly to his knees. He regained his balance and turned to charge again. Gunnar bent to meet his attack when a flash of pale green sendal in the window of his chamber caught his eye.

  Had she been watching him?

  In the second it took to ponder the possibility, Alaric's blade bit into his bare arm.

  “Christ!” Gunnar roared.

  Alaric threw his sword to the ground; tearing off his helm and casting it aside. “Oh, God!” he cried. “Milord, I did not intend--Oh, God!”

  “'Tis just a scratch,” Gunnar grumbled, more upset at having been distracted by the thought of Raina's interest in him than at his squire having landed a blow. He clasped his hand over the wound and made his way into the keep to have it dressed. “Resume the practice,” he barked to his men.

  Alaric followed at his side, spewing nervous apologies and curses at his own carelessness as the two men entered the tower and ascended the stairs.

  * * *

  Raina heard footsteps on the stairwell, but when the chamber door was thrown wide, she looked up from her mending with a start.

  “Good heavens,” she gasped when she spied the blood seeping between Gunnar's fingers. She had stopped watching the men in the bailey and gone back to her mending when it became evident that they could continue sparring for the remainder of the afternoon. She had not been prepared to meet with this. Dropping her work and ignoring Gunnar's perturbed scowl, she was at his side in an instant.
“What happened?”

  “We were training in the bailey,” Alaric supplied, his brows knit with worry. “I struck milord--though I swear 'twas not apurpose!”

  Raina showed her reluctant patient to a faldstool beside the hearth. “How bad is it?” Kneeling beside Gunnar, she glanced up to see his dark gaze fixed on her as she worked to loosen his grip on the wound.

  “'Tis a scratch, naught more,” he growled, looking away from her at last. “I swear, you both act as if you've never seen a flesh wound.”

  He removed his hand at Raina's insistent prying. The cut was clean and clotting already, but it was fairly deep and would likely need to be stitched to avoid festering and scarring.

  Raina rose to retrieve her needle and thread and the cup of wine that sat beside the bed. Returning to Gunnar, she knelt beside him on the floor, then gingerly lifting his arm, she poured the contents of the cup over the cut. He tensed in her hands but his face remained impassive.

  “I'm sorry,” she said, wiping away the blood and wine with a cloth. “I fear it needs stitching.”

  She waited for his refusal, recalling that many of her father's knights often preferred to suffer out their wounds, gladly accepting horrible scars over the thought of stitches. Gunnar simply shrugged away her concern.

  Gathering the wound closed as gently as she could, Raina poked the needle into the dark skin of Gunnar's arm, wincing in empathy. “Alaric's skills must be improving, to have landed such a blow on his teacher.”

  “Oh, n-nay, milady!” Alaric sputtered at her praise. “'Twas through no great skill of mine, I trow, but rather that milord's attention--”